


Juxtaposed With You

by Justkeeptrekkin



Category: House M.D.
Genre: But also, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Two Idiots Abroad, and there was only one bed, the fluff is as plentiful if not more plentiful than the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23527144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justkeeptrekkin/pseuds/Justkeeptrekkin
Summary: A conference brings both House and Wilson to London. It's not strictlymeantto be a holiday, but that's what it turns into- with a few unexpected results.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 131
Kudos: 379





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> This fic is set after 'House Training', Series 3 episode 20. There are canon references to child abuse/House's past, mostly in chapter 2. just as a heads up! PLEASE read the tags before you read this fic!! x

“I'm going to give you a moment to reconsider that answer. Because if you're for some reason mistaken, we will find out- and that will not be good for you, or Doctor House.”

Tritter waits. Wilson is staring at a plastic evidence packet of his own prescription sheets. Vicodin, for House, of course. _His_ prescriptions. _Not_ his handwriting. 

It’s sickening. And terrifying. He doesn’t know what this means for the future. For the future of their careers, of their friendship, any of it. House has been forging his signature to feed an addiction that comes from an almost unbearable chronic pain; it’s too messy for him to know what’s right or what comes next. All he knows is that it isn’t good. 

At the end of the day, he will do what it takes to keep him out of jail. Even if it means he goes down with him. Instead of him, even. 

_He saves lives every day,_ he thinks, in the microsecond that he has to debate this. Tritter’s eyes fixed on him, his body angled towards him. This guy was the kind of kid who’d kick the shit out of kids like Wilson at school- he recognised it the moment he set eyes on him. _I diagnose people who are already dead. If this ends with someone going to jail… better me than him._

After what feels like too long, Wilson nods. He looks up at Tritter, schools the most even expression that he can. Tritter’s gaze drills into him.

“I am sure,” Wilson replies coolly. “Absolutely.”

When the bastard finally leaves, it’s all Wilson can do not to scream. He’s so angry. So, so angry. And infuriated and _hurt_. How does House continually do this to him? Them- all of the people who care about him? Where does he get off treating them like shit? 

The problem is, Wilson thinks as he leans against his shitty hotel desk and squeezes his eyes shut, he doesn’t get off on giving them pain. He gets off on the Vicodin, which he would literally do anything for because he’s sick. He is an addict. He is mentally ill, and if he didn’t have friends to go above and beyond for him, then he might not even survive it. House is shitty. Humans are shitty. But humans need the chance to improve, and they can only do that if someone, preferably several people, care.

And by God, does Wilson care. 

***

**Two months later.**

“Refreshments?”

The plane engine hums, an almost pleasant white noise when he doesn’t think about the fact that he’s stuck in a hunk of metal thirty-five thousand feet above sea level. Wilson peruses the shelves of the little trolley for not much more than a couple of seconds. “I’ll have… a glass of rioja. Thanks.”

The moment he has his purchased drink, it is removed by a hand which has magically appeared from his left. 

House takes a delicate sip from Wilson’s red wine and makes a satisfied _ah_. “Wow. This is really delicious. Notes of oak and cherry. You should get some.”

“When the refreshments come by again in… what, an hour? Two, maybe?”

“Ya snooze, ya loose.”

“Right. Stealing my food and drinks on ground _and_ in the air. How predictable.”

“Can’t have been that predictable, otherwise you would’ve got two.”

House puts in his headphones. Wilson sighs. This resignation that he feels- it follows him around whenever he’s within a two-mile radius of House. Sometimes, it gets lost, and Wilson will forget how much of an ass he is, until he does something even mildly irritating and the weariness will catch right up with him. On his left, House drinks his red wine and reads the most recent volume of _The London Medical Journal_ with a self-satisfied, pursed smile. Wilson makes do with the bottle of water he brought with him, opening it with another more pointed sigh. 

House rolls his eyes and removes one of his earphones: “Excuse me, could you please sigh more quietly? Your guilt-tripping is distracting me from my research.”

“I’m just sitting here!”

“And breathing. It’s getting on my nerves.”

Wilson looks at the screen in front of him, a cartoon image of their plane flying over the Atlantic ocean towards the UK. “Wonderful. So, tell me, why did you ask me to join you on this trip if I’m so irritating?”

House swirls the plastic wine cup with one hand, holds the folded magazine in the other and responds without looking at him. “Cuddy makes a boring travel-buddy. She’s all work, no play.”

“I see. Here was me thinking that maybe it was because you thought I, a lowly oncologist with multiple brain tumor patients, might find an encephalitis conference useful.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell Cuddy that you’re totally freeloading and just trying to sneak in a free holiday to London.”

“You’re right… a seven hour flight with you _is_ right next to ‘road trip around the Mediterranean’ on my list of dream holidays.”

House ignores this slight, reads his magazine. Wilson takes out his book and does his best to relax. 

Everything feels just the same, as if nothing has changed since House avoided prosecution. Even though Wilson knows that the drug habits have gone right back to where they were before, he figured that maybe something would change. Anything. He isn’t sure what he was expecting. 

_I was naïve to think anything would change,_ he thinks as his eyes hover over the same sentence of his book over and over. Perhaps it’s something to do with the way Tritter had kept on pushing at them all to give him what he wanted, and for that matter, kept on attacking Wilson specifically. A bully though he was, he was a very clever one; he identified Wilson’s martyr-complex immediately, narrowed in on him, put him under pressure because he knew that he cared about House more than anyone else, more than he ought to. Smart. He used that, he pulled it apart, he made Wilson doubt himself and he made everyone else doubt Wilson. Pushed Wilson into the corner, intimidated him, intimidated House, and then he said something that has stuck with Wilson since.

_“Look, I don't care why Doctor Wilson is doing this-”_

He can see the scene in his mind’s eye; House’s look of animal defence, head dipped and eyes looking up suspiciously; Tritter stepping closer to him; Wilson standing in shock at House’s utter idiocy and his own naivety. 

He still hasn’t figured it out. Why he struck the deal with Tritter, that is. Why he went so far to protect House. Why he does anything for House. 

“You OK?”

Wilson looks up. House only ever asks this question with reluctance, as if he wants to get the nicety out of the way. Now, he’s looking Wilson up and down, wine notably drained. 

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You haven’t turned the page of your book in five minutes.” Wilson looks down at his book and shakes his head, not having an answer. House continues, “Although, it’s fair enough. _Twilight_ is a very difficult book, lots of big words.”

He isn’t reading _Twilight_ at all, but there’s no point in arguing. “I was just enjoying the unusual stretch of silence that I don’t usually get to experience when I’m stuck with you.”

“It’s distracting. You sitting there and staring at your book, not reading.”

“If I’m this distracting when I’m literally, quite literally not doing anything, why don’t you move? Actually, you know what-” he interrupts as House is about to retort, “Don’t worry. I’ll _ease your pain_.”

Wilson grabs his stuff, House paying no attention to him whatsoever. He moves over to one of the empty seats a couple of rows back. Business class is never as full as economy, and Wilson is happy for it. If he had to sit next to House in economy, he’d probably have an aneurism. He unpacks himself in his new spot, throwing his bag under the seat and walking down the aisle to buy himself a drink from the trolley, which is still making its way through the business class area. When he takes his drink back to his seat and settles down, he feels pretty damn happy. House is out of view, probably plotting against Wilson in some small way.

Since his mind is too distracted to read, Wilson tries a film. He finds something that he remembers hearing was good in the review section recently, lets his head drop against the rest, and closes his eyes. 

The thoughts that come to mind aren’t quite dreams, and they’re not quite memories. They’re a combination of the two that swirl around his head dizzily and deliriously, the roar of the plane engine in the background. He remembers the gold and dark red furnishings of the Atlantic City hotel he was in with House and Coma Guy, the impatience and edginess he felt, heightened through being half-asleep. House telling a story of when he was a boy, taking his friend to the hospital in Japan- the incident that made him want to be a doctor. And Wilson’s mind fills in the gaps- conjures up some approximation of what a young Greg House might have looked like, what the strange _buraku_ doctor might have looked like who inspired House so much. This doctor who was so far removed from societal norms, so ostracised that he was pushed away by everybody until a life-or-death situation presented itself. A man who was hated, but needed. Someone who showed House that he could be needed, somewhere. 

And then his thoughts turn to nothing as he falls into a dreamless sleep. He only knows this because he is abruptly awoken from said sleep- by the sound of his film turned up to full volume through his headphones. 

Wilson practically jumps out of his skin, scrabbles to pull the headphones off and makes a miserable, half-asleep sob. 

“Why do you always feel the need to ruin my life?” he demands.

House is hovering by his seat, drinking another glass of wine, with a straw. Watching him as a child might at 6am on a weekend morning, waiting for him to get out of bed and entertain him. “You sleep with your mouth open.”

His teeth do feel sort of fluffy. Sleeping on planes always does this to him. “And you came to tell me that.”

“No. I came to take your wine. You weren’t drinking it.”

House gestures his wine as a ‘cheers’ and returns to his seat. Wilson watches him go with a sense of resignation and something else- yes, something else, too. 

***  
They survive the flight miraculously without murder. By the time they’ve landed, House has purchased his own booze, leaving Wilson none, but it does mean that House is in a cheerful mood once they’re on the tarmac. 

The taxi ride from Gatwick airport to London gives House the time to sober up, which means that the bickering starts up again and Wilson puts in his headphones just to ignore House as much as humanly possible. The weather is blue skies and cold air, crisp with cloudy breaths the moment they step out of the taxi onto Mercer Street. Their hotel has that marble façade that reminds Wilson a little of New York, all except for the enormous Union Jack flags hanging above the door. It’s ten pm on Wednesday night, and it feels like it should be five, and Wilson needs to eat and shower and sleep if he’s going to be able to spend the next two days with House without hitting him over the head with his cane. 

“Fever, vomiting, rash, sore neck and seizure. Kid comes in with textbook viral meningitis symptoms, we treat it, now he’s even sicker. We packed him full of fluids and antiviral, so- what’s the differential diagnosis for a virus that pops fangs at the sight of acyclovir?”

House is on the phone behind him as he hands over his credit card to the receptionist. He gives an awkward, pursed lipped smile at her as she stares House over his shoulder. Most people get nervous when they hear the word ‘meningitis’- throwing the word around in public, in a hotel, is also not the done thing. And yet, House has never done the ‘done thing’ in his life, so here they are. 

“We need to play spot the difference. Compare two pretty pictures of what the kid had before he came in, versus what he has now. The only way we can do that is if we make him sicker.”

That gets a few more alarmed looks, naturally. Wilson signs his signature and tries to give a more comforting smile to the receptionist. She’s cute. He wishes he could think that she’s cute. But with House around, Wilson finds his entire mental energy dedicated to keeping him out of trouble. It’s like everyone else stops existing for his benefit. 

“You need to make him _sickerrrr_ ,” House taunts down the phone to his presumably reluctant team. 

The receptionist slides two key cards over the counter. “The conference room is just across the hall behind you,” she says quietly, eyes flitting between Wilson and the Disney villain on the phone. “Your rooms are 213 and 214.”

“Right. Thank you…”

He turns around and waves aggressively in House’s direction- a vague, angrier version of semaphore. With both rooms paid for, he picks up his weekend bag and they walk through the atrium of the hotel, marble floors and high ceilings and people who look far more important than them. They chose a nice hotel for this conference, at least. Even if it means Wilson will be spending the next two days stuck in it with House. 

Wilson keeps pretending that he isn’t sort of looking forward to it.

The elevator doors open and they step inside. House is frowning at the floor of the lift with his eyes closed, focusing on what one of his team is saying. It sounds like Foreman on the other end, right now. Wilson purses his lips and stares up at the arrow sign flashing upwards. 

“Right,” House says after a while. “Except, none of that changes the fact that we can’t diagnose someone who presents with symptoms that could stem from any one of a thousand diseases. We need. To make. Him _sicker_.” He hangs up, pockets his phone. Tuts and rolls his eyes. “I thought leaving the kids at home would be OK.”

“But?” Wilson prompts.

“Without you there to clean up they’re being all kinds of stupid. I’ll probably come back and find the place trashed. Heirlooms broken, grandpa House’s vase of ashes smashed.”

Wilson raises his eyebrows just as the elevator _dings_ and puts them in the corridor. “Without _me_ there. Huh. All this time I… thought you didn’t appreciate what I did for the family.”

“Without you they start acting out. You’re the best babysitter I can find in a tight spot.”

They amble down the corridor. His room is on the right. House’s is just across his, on the other side of the corridor. He hands House his key. 

“Well. It’s only just past ten, now,” Wilson says with a sigh. He’s a lot more tired than he realised; travelling seems to suck just a little bit more every time he does it. “We should probably sleep. I’ll come get you for breakfast, eight-ish.”

He takes the key from Wilson slowly. Something about the gesture seems to make House suddenly introspective, staring at the plastic card with a thoughtful frown. His gaze is fierce and a little bit irritated, looking up at Wilson, the door behind him, the card, then Wilson again.

“What?” 

House makes an almost imperceptible huff. “Nothing. I’m going to bed.”

He turns around and goes into his room, shutting the door promptly in Wilson’s face. Which shouldn’t be surprising, there are plenty of things which could have set House off on one of his tantrums, but he has absolutely no idea what it could be now. It makes him hang helplessly in the corridor, throwing his arms up in the air for no one but himself. 

“ _OK_ ,” he mutters to himself, opening his own door. “Sweet dreams, House. _Don’t let the bed bugs bite._ ”

No response, predictably. Wilson shrugs and shakes his head, letting himself into his room for the night. 

This place is nice. Far nicer than the last hotel he went to for a conference- admittedly a few years ago and in Baltimore. And significantly nicer than the hotel he’s been living in in Princeton for the past couple of months. It makes a change of scenery, at least, with brighter décor and bigger bed and- _woah_ , a huge shower and bath. The view outside would be pretty, without hundreds of people on the streets below. He hasn’t been to London in decades. Suddenly remembering that he hasn’t actually had a single drink this entire day, despite having bought two, he goes to the minibar, opening the fridge door- hesitates and stares at its contents. Milk. White wine. Snacks. Would this go on the hospital’s overhead bill? Or would he have to pay directly? Considering that he’s making his own lunch at home at the moment to save money, paying for an over-priced bottle of paint-stripper wine probably isn’t smart. 

And so, with a sigh, he resigns himself to eating the biscuits left in the tea and coffee tray.

***  
The conference starts in an hour. He wants to be able to have a leisurely breakfast and meander calmly to the meeting room. Mentally prepare for the rest of the day, sitting in an audience next to House. 

Maybe if he loses House along the way, he can hide somewhere at the back. Then no one will know he came with him. 

He slept poorly. Jet lag is a bitch, and so is city traffic. He’s blow-drying his hair and staring at his reflection in the room’s full-length mirror when he notices how tired he looks. Was that just from one night’s bad sleep? No, surely not. And he hasn’t been sleeping _that_ badly back in Princeton. It’s not like work is more stressful than usual at the moment, either. Turning off the hairdryer, he puts it on the glass surface of the desk and pokes at the bags under his eyes. Deep shadows. Is there anything on his mind, maybe? Other than another pending divorce? 

_Divorces are old-hat for you by now_ , he thinks, strangely enough in House’s voice. He’s right though. He didn’t take the last divorce this badly. There’s something else that’s draining him, something that’s emotionally exhausting him and making him look like a recently revived coma patient. 

_House_ , he answers himself, in his own voice this time. And along comes the familiar flush of irritation, weariness, resignation, and a flurry of other feelings that are too mixed up to parse. He’s his best friend, so he’s obviously happy to see him whenever he hangs out with him. That shouldn’t make him exhausted, though. 

Ah- there it is- a feeling that’s pushing itself amongst the tornado of emotions that are too tangled to identify. He feels it all the time with House, and it’s one that feels both familiar and new. It’s what he felt when he watched him take his seat on the plane yesterday, one he gets whenever he steps into House’s office and sees him hitting a ball against the wall, listening to music with his eyes closed, or whenever he sees him storm into his own office and collapse on his sofa. Little insignificant moments evoke it. It’s a feeling that he doesn’t understand, so he turns and outruns it. Maybe that’s what’s exhausting him, he considers. 

Wilson steps back and measures his reflection. Well. At least if he ignores the intense bags under his eyes, he looks alright. 

He finds the corridor is empty and quiet. Do Not Disturb signs hanging outside doors, including House’s. Wilson looks at it, elects to ignore it. 

He knocks, loudly. “House.” There’s no sound of movement in there. Wilson checks his phone- he texted to wake him up, because apparently that’s the sort of friend he is- but there’s no response from House. He sighs, rolls his neck, knocks again. “House. Get up.”

“He’s not here,” House calls from inside the room.

“I’m not sitting next to you for this morning’s lectures if you don’t eat breakfast.” Wilson has had to deal with his hanger crankiness too many times in the past. He’s not making this experience more unbearable than it already will be. 

He can’t decide whether he’s dreading or excited for this whole experience. 

“ _House._ ”

Nothing. Wilson sighs. 

“Fine,” he says to the door. “Starve. That’s your prerogative. You’re worse than a teenager.”

Then comes the immediate response of, “God, leave me _alone_ , Mom.”

It makes Wilson nod, as if he should have predicted this from the start. Abandoning his mission, he heads down to the restaurant, walking past a housekeeper who tries to avoid his eye, trying not to laugh. He wonders what she must think of two grown men arguing through a hotel room door. Probably what the rest of the world thinks- that they’re a couple. 

Anyway. 

The restaurant is nice. Very nice. It’s a little overly luxurious to the point of being a bit tacky, large and covered in modern art. The breakfast buffet has a small queue of people, some of whom look like tourists, but mostly people in shirts and ties like himself. He looks down at his own outfit. The tie is definitely a little louder than is probably appropriate for an encephalitis conference. Ah, well. 

_That tie makes you look like a pubescent car-salesman,_ comes House’s voice in his head. 

It makes him pause as he’s piling up on the free breakfast. And it makes him sigh. Why is it, that his mind spends half the time trying to figure out how to avoid House, and the other half trying to figure out how to get his attention? And why is it that this conflict has somehow resulted in him imagining what House would say when he isn’t there? 

Wilson shakes his head, disappointed in himself as he takes out his phone, walking to a free two-person table. 

It goes to voicemail. “House,” he begins in a gruff impression, ignoring the stares from the neighbouring tables, “this is your conscience. I know we’ve had our differences, and even though you’ve tried to kill me off with booze and drugs, I wanted to make one last appeal. Doncha think it would be nice to, head downstairs maybe- sit with your best friend, who’s currently eating a full English breakfast by himself, looking like a lonely insurance broker in one of those ties you hate? Give the loser some company?”

Yes, he’s absolutely getting some looks from the table next to him. He turns away in his seat a little but continues, enjoying this too much. He always enjoys the banter with House, more than he has any right to. 

“You and I, we don’t have a good relationship, but maybe if you just listened to the little angel on your shoulder and told the little devil to fuck off once in a while, you won’t make your wonderful friend James Wilson look like such a jackass.”

He puts down the phone, lays it on the table. Clears his throat. Doing a House impression makes his voice all croaky. Wilson is leaning back in his chair and drinking his coffee, slowly making his way through his breakfast, when the chair opposite is very suddenly filled by House. He appears from behind Wilson, collapsing into the chair and ruffling his wet hair. He’s wearing a Sex Pistols t-shirt. Probably in honour of their location, being a London punk band. How would he know, he doesn’t understand House’s ridiculous thought processes. It does at least make him feel less like a prick in his loud tie. 

“That was your impression of me?” House asks, unimpressed, taking a piece of toast from Wilson’s plate. “By the way, joke’s on you. I ate my conscience in the womb.”

“ _Hey._ The buffet is _free._ Get your own.”

“I could tell by the way you’ve piled your plate high enough to keep you going for the next week. Didn’t know you were that broke.” He says this with absolutely no pity or remorse, and Wilson bats his hand away from his fork. 

“Seriously! Grab a plate! The nice hotel chefs have put even more food, all the way over there, see? For you to take, without needing to ask or pay.”

“Takes the fun out of it if I can’t steal from you.”

House manages to get the fork, gets a mouthful of hash brown. 

Wilson sighs, begins using a spoon to finish his breakfast. “Wow. I really am a lucky guy.”

He spoons beans off the plate. It’s only when he realises that House has gone quiet and is staring that he begins to feel unsettled. A feeling that’s similar to sensing that there’s something hiding under the bed when the lights are turned off. 

“What?” he asks, as casually as he can.

Eyes slightly narrowed. A tiny, almost triumphant smile. He points a fork at him. “Interesting choice of words.”

 _Huh_? he thinks, before realising- shit. Yes, he supposes it was a strange choice in words. Freudian slip, perhaps- his mind stuck on the awkward fact that the rest of the world seems to think they’re a couple. “What? We always joke about acting like an old married couple.”

House’s expression shifts from smug to calculating. “No, I’m the one who makes the gay jokes, not you. You never joke about it.”

“Oh, OK, I’m very sorry, I’ll- try not to tread on your toes again, shall I?” He’s attacking his eggs and toast with a knife and spoon. He’s panicking. Why is he panicking?

“When people call us a couple, I turn it into a joke- _you_ , meanwhile, get all awkward and bitchy about it.”

“I _do not_ ,” he scoffs, dropping his spoon.

“I always thought it was because it offended you.”

“At this point, if your homophobic jokes offended me, I’d have stopped being friends with you years ago-”

“So, what’s the differential diagnosis for internalised homophobia?”

House stares, looking pleased with himself. Wilson stares back. Shakes his head, looks at his plate, picks up his spoon again. “Unbelievable.”

“It makes total sense!” House exclaims, smiling- genuinely _smiling_ , he’s loving this, the asshole. “You’re gay, and that’s why it pisses you off so much when people joke about it. But now you’re joining _in_ on the joke to deflect the attention-”

“House. I am _not_ gay.”

He takes Wilson’s phone, unlocks it, the buttons beeping as he scrolls through something. Wilson lurches to retrieve it, and House’s hand jerks back. “You still got Bonnie’s number on here? I’m sure she has some valuable insight-”

“House- give- give it- GIVE IT-”

It’s at that moment that House has seen something in the far end of the cafeteria that makes him freeze. Wilson takes the opportunity to grab his phone. He only got as far as the contacts page, thank God. 

“I hate you. Truly, madly and deeply,” Wilson says, stuffing his phone in his pocket. Then he sees the look on House’s face, an expression of annoyance and recognition. “What is it?”

“That guy over there. Five o’clock.”

Wilson tries to mentally recalibrate from their conversation. House has clearly switched topics easily. He turns in his seat, looking around the room. 

“Your five o’clock, moron, not seven.”

Wilson turns the other way- over his shoulder, a guy in a salmon pink shirt and black suit. 

“OK, there’s a guy…?” he says slowly, turning back to his friend. “I presume… you know him?”

House sighs, leans back in his seat. Looks the other way in irritation, drums his fingers against the tablecloth. “Went to med school with him.”

Wilson looks back again. The man is holding a cup of coffee in his hand, talking to someone in the breakfast queue. Blonde hair slicked back, perfectly ironed suit. The weak chin of a man who’s the product of elitism and inbreeding. Ruddy cheeks and a baby face, nasty little eyes. 

When those eyes look over to their table, Wilson turns around and slides down in his chair, shielding his face with his hand. House glares at Wilson.

“He saw you,” House grumbles. 

“You told me where to look- I looked,” he shrugs. 

House looks the other way, an almost-eye roll. “He’s coming over.”

“He evidently would have recognised you anyway. I’m dying to hear whatever it is you did to piss him off.”

At that, House’s irritation dissolves, and a look of fake-nonchalance replaces it. He leans one elbow on the table and cradles his chin with his hand, eyes wide and innocent and brows raised, looking at Wilson like he’s listening to him explaining something fascinating. 

“Yes, you’re right, act casual,” Wilson mocks. 

“Well, if it isn’t Gregory House.”

The man appears at their table. Hands in his pockets, legs spread wide, a totally transparent power-stance that almost makes Wilson laugh. He doesn’t; he covers it with a cough. House is keeping up the playfully innocent façade. It’s designed to irritate, and it works- the guy sighs, loudly, waiting for a response. House feigns a double-take, looking up at the newcomer with mouth hanging open. 

“Well, if it isn’t _Fuck-Face McGee_.”

Wilson looks up at the guy, interested in how he’ll react. At first, he just blinks, a cold smile on his face. Then he looks over to Wilson, holds out his hand. “It’s actually _Eustace_ McGregor.”

Wilson accepts it. “James Wilson.”

“Oh. This is _nice_ ,” House opines. “Look at you two.”

Wilson removes his hand quickly. McGregor slides his back into his pocket, looks down at House with that same cold smile. “I see you’re still an arrogant asshole. Nice t-shirt,” he says with a wrinkled nose. “And bed-head.”

“My mommy says I’m handsome,” House replies, taking Wilson’s mug of coffee and drinking from it. Wincing. “Wilson, remind me how you’re not diabetic, again?”

There’s no point in responding to that. He looks up at McGregor, who really does look like the epitome of Ivy League Bastard. “So. You two know each other?” he asks tightly. 

“You could say that.”

“I honestly couldn’t tell.”

“You work with House?”

“Same hospital, different departments,” Wilson explains easily, affably. He prefers to kill with kindness. House thinks it makes him a wimp. “I’m oncology.”

“Oh.” McGregor, looks him up and down. “That’s nice.”

Wilson gives him an even stare, tilting his head and nodding to himself as he watches. The level of condescension fascinating. The small-guy complex is so intense with men like this. A ubiquitous smell of expensive aftershave mixed with testosterone. 

House returns the mug to Wilson’s saucer. “Yeah. The dying little kids who just barely cling onto life ‘cause of him think he’s nice too. Nothing more soft and fluffy than a ten year old slowly wasting away because of a baseball-sized tumour resting on their kidney, amiright?”

Wilson frowns at House. He’s taking the crystal glass on Wilson’s side and dipping his finger into his water, running it along the edge until it makes a high, clear sound. 

Did House just come to his defence? 

Surely not. 

“Oncology is certainly noble,” McGregor nods slowly, pursing a smile. He turns back to House. “You’re in diagnostics. I’ve been hearing about your cases.”

“I’ve not heard about any of yours.” House takes a teaspoon and clinks it against the glass, creating an obnoxious percussion with it. 

“Your bitterness has increased with age. Unsurprising. You were already awful in med-school.”

“My mommy _also_ says that I’m a bundle of joy. I’m sure yours said the same about you when you popped out the womb in a teeny-tiny Ralph Lauren polo shirt. They must have been so happy when they found out Johns Hopkins accepted your offer for one hundred thousand dollars in exchange for a place in med-school.”

“Well, not that this isn’t fun and all,” McGregor sighs, looking at his watch, “But I’ve got to set up. For the _lecture_ I’m giving in forty minutes.”

House claps his hands together. “Oh, goodie.”

“I’ll leave you two alone to your _date_.”

House darts a look at Wilson. He’s doing that thing where he tilts his head, chin to chest, looking a little bit humiliated and a big bit annoyed. It reminds him of that migraine lecture that House crashed and ruined, leaving everyone- including him- a bit sheepish. And Wilson doesn’t know what comes over him, but he knows he’s going crazy when he reaches over and takes House’s hand. 

Everyone tenses. He thinks the tourists on the other side of the room are tense.

“Thanks,” he says, giving McGregor a long, even stare. “We’d appreciate that.”

People don’t tend to find Wilson intimidating. In fact, he works very hard _not_ to be. He aims to create an air of calm, a reassuring demeanour that makes him his patients’ confidant, their rock in hard times. He likes to be friendly with staff. He likes to be friendly to most people. But people like Tritter and McGregor piss him off. And whilst he’ll never intimidate them- he wouldn’t want to risk it- he can undermine them every now and then, maybe. If his biggest weakness is that he cares too much, maybe it could be a strength too. 

By some small miracle, it works. McGregor finds the wind completely taken out of his sails, completely weirded out by their hands holding across the table. He looks at them, goes an awkward red, grimaces, and leaves. 

House is staring, a fierce, measuring look that makes Wilson a bit hot and nervous. He takes his hand away. 

“Well,” he says a bit airily, picking up his fork. “That worked, I guess. Note to self, if people make gay jokes, then… make them pay for it.”

It takes so much effort to just continue with his breakfast. House goes eerily quiet, before getting up and announcing that he’ll get his own food, on his own plate. 

***

House sits next to him in the audience, with a pair of sunglasses on. The temptation to slide down in his seat and just lie on the floor, crawl away from this situation is so huge, Wilson genuinely considers it. 

The conference room has about one hundred of them, doctors from all over the world. It’s an absolute honour to be here, and House should show respect, but then, House probably unlearned the term ‘respect’ somewhere around the age of seven years old. Meanwhile, Wilson is aware that the only reason he’s here is because he’s House’s- something. Companion? Guard? Accomplice? Whatever, he’s there to make sure he doesn’t do something stupid and get punched in the face. One of his favourite hobbies. The problem is, Wilson can’t guarantee that _he_ won’t punch House in the face- leg bouncing, Gameboy in his hands, glasses, and baseball cap turned backwards. 

McGregor is up next. At the moment, a neurosurgeon from New Delhi is speaking about the various discoveries her hospital has made on how to reduce swelling without lasting brain damage, and Wilson is genuinely trying to pay attention. It’s hard to do that with the occasional _It’s a me! Mario!_ singing beside him. It turns more than a few heads, even with the volume fairly quiet. 

Wilson leans towards House and whispers. “Wanna maybe turn the sound off before I smash that thing to pieces with your cane?”

House turns to him slowly, threateningly, leaning back a little to view him. 

“Oh, don’t act offended,” Wilson mutters. “Put it on mute, before I lose my mind.”

House slumps in his seat and sighs, probably rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses- switches the volume off on the side. The only reason Wilson doesn’t take the Gameboy from him is because he knows it actually helps him concentrate. He’s probably listening to everything the speakers are saying, mentally cataloguing for some future case where he can dazzle everyone with his insane memory. And so he continues to play. Wilson finds it hard not to switch off and stare at the game. It’s kind of fun to watch. 

The speaker descends from the podium, a round of applause firing up. Wilson tears his attention away from the Gameboy and feels a flush of embarrassment, claps along with everyone else. He has no idea what happened in the last ten minutes of that lecture. 

“Damn.” House sucks air through his teeth and looks down at the screen. GAME OVER.

Again, Wilson tries not to get distracted, looks back up at the podium as the applause dies down. And there’s McGregor, blonde hair receding and slicked back. He saunters across the stage with the confidence of a man who’s been given all the answers and not looked for any of them himself. It’s not as if Wilson’s not from a well-off background, but he does find some doctors’ privilege and entitlement baffling. McGregor opens his arms wide, a shit-eating grin, a kind of welcome to his audience. _Aren’t you all pleased to see me talk today?_

What’s irritating is that he’s pretty charismatic. People laugh at the jokes, and Wilson looks around the room, creeped out by how much everyone is swept away by him. 

House sighs at his side, fingers clicking and flying across the Gameboy buttons. “I wonder what pearls of wisdom Herr Shitlord will provide,” he says in a low voice. 

Several people in the row in front hear. Wilson knows this because one woman snorts and covers her mouth with her hand. 

“He has a kind of charm,” Wilson replies, watching the way he clicks the projector remote with a flourish, stats and figures behind him that are unnecessarily unclear- just to make people feel stupid, he assumes. “It’s nauseating.”

At that, House’s Gameboy suddenly erupts into life again. The music tinkles and chimes, obnoxious and totally juxtaposing the topic of McGregor’s topic, which is the drug trial that he’s been running on a new steroid. His eyes look down into the audience, obviously noticing that there’s music, but possibly not loud enough for him to know for sure. He continues, unfazed.

“What is it with you and pissing off ex-colleagues who are running drug trials,” Wilson mutters.

“This one was a lackey for the last one,” he mutters. 

House wins a level- Wilson has been watching, much to his own chagrin- and he punches the air mid-lecture. “ _Oh_ HELL yeah,” he announces, loud enough that it turns almost everyone’s heads.

Wilson leans forward and rests his face in his hands. “Please, God. Someone. Anyone. Make him stop.”

“Trust me, he deserves the humiliation,” House remarks in a low voice. 

“Do _I_?” Wilson mumbles. 

The conference room goes quiet. Nobody says anything, including McGregor. And then, he begins speaking again, as if House hadn’t interrupted him at all. 

As far as Wilson can remember, House was the one who cheated off the Migraine Guy ins med-school. If he got ratted out for that, then it’s well deserved. But then, because it’s House, it’s probably a hell of a lot more complicated than that. And whilst he doesn’t know much about House’s background, he knows enough to think that there was probably stuff going on to screw him up and put him in a position to cheat. Then again, maybe there wasn’t anything. The fact of the matter is that Wilson is still in this excruciating position regardless, the universe has ordained that he be sat next to House, and he’s hiding his face just to avoid the attention. 

“Well that’s not particularly supportive of you,” House complains, noting how Wilson is trying to melt away into the floor. “ _Sweetie._ ”

He sits up, blinks his eyes back into focus again- he’s starting to really regret the hand holding thing from this morning. Leaning towards House he says quietly, “I know you find it physically impossible not to embarrass people any chance you get. But remember that if you annoy people enough during this talk, we won’t be allowed back into any of the rest of them.”

House seems to consider this. Then, “Score. Win-win.”

Yeah. He should have expected that. “Fine. You explain it to Cuddy when she asks why we got thrown out of the very expensive conference she sent us to.”

At that, House seems to behave for the next five minutes, albeit with his Gameboy turned on in the middle of the audience. McGregor continues, pointing at facts and figures that are really, very poorly presented. It’s like he’s _trying_ to alienate his audience, a room full of the world’s best doctors. And just when Wilson thinks he can tune out the white noise of his game, House’s phone rings. 

He remains seated when he answers it. 

“Hello, this is Doctor House, let’s go save some lives!”

This announcement is loud enough that Wilson jumps at _Hello_. He closes his eyes and exhales, slowly. 

“No, no, go ahead, I’m just listening to some moron talk about a completely useless drug trial,” House continues cheerily. “You go on, doctor, how do you think we can _save_ this _dying child’s life_?”

Wilson just sits in his chair with his eyes closed, waiting for the shit to hit the fan. “I’m so happy I agreed to come to London with you.”

He hears McGregor’s microphone echo as he clears his throat. “Doctor House.”

Opening his eyes he glances at House, slouched and adjusting his sunglasses. He removes his phone from his ear for a second to look up at McGregor. “Gosh, I’m- I’m so sorry, Doctor, was I being too loud practising real, Big Boy medicine?”

“Would it kill you to take your conversation outside?” That cold smile. It looks like he’s about to explode. 

Wilson covers his face when he turns to House and says, “I think he may _genuinely_ murder you. If I don’t get there first.”

House stands up with a sweet smile. “Of course! I wouldn’t want to be _rude_ ,” he emphasises, rolling his eyes like it’s obvious. 

With that, McGregor watches House shuffle down the end of the aisle with conspicuous ‘make way, cripple coming through’s. Wilson observes with a mixture of amusement and horror as he kicks people’s legs out of the way with his cane, phone pressed to his ear. And he realises suddenly, that House is actually having a conversation with his team. He wants to talk to them about the case- this isn’t just him embarrassing McGregor, although that’s a major part of it. 

“Is the rash different?” he says down the phone, drowning out McGregor. “What did they both look like, describe them.” 

McGregor valiantly goes on with his talk, the red in his cheeks spreading to the rest of his face. 

“The kid had meningitis. We cured him, and it left an empty home- free real estate for this other thing to slip in and squat there. Search the rooms, see what you can find in the cupboards.”

The conference room door opens and closes, and House’s voice is muffled on the other side of it. Wilson sighs with relief. 

And promptly finds that he misses House being there, sat beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
>  **TW:** this chapter features canon references to House's child abuse :( As a trigger warning!!! If you want to skip any reference to that, I'd skip straight to: "He hasn’t laughed this much in- ever."
> 
>  **TW** : also reference to some bad life choices due to alochol lmao; they have a messy night out.

House is aware that he’s dreaming. Ever since the whole almost-dying-thing with his leg, and then the subsequent almost-dying-thing, he’s gotten pretty good at communicating with his subconscious. Unfortunately for him, most of the time, his subconscious likes to shove it right back in his face and make him pay for how much an asshole he is when he’s conscious. 

He’s standing in his back garden. No, he doesn’t have a back garden anymore; it’s the family garden. A nice big lawn, neighbours on either side of white painted fences. A perfectly respectable army reserve, their street filled with respectable army families and their army children. Their lawn is nice. His mum used to plant roses whilst dad was out, and House used to watch her gardening from the window. He looks up now and sees the window. It’s smaller than he usually remembers. 

The dream shifts a little and it’s night. The garden feels unsafe in the dark. Like things could be hiding in the shadows, behind the shed and the flowers, things that could come crawling over those pretty white fences. 

He sees himself curled up on the porch, arms wrapped around his legs and his face pressed against his knees. 

House steps towards the boy. When he’s just a couple of metres away, the boy’s head snaps up, eyes on him. A challenging, furious, animal look in his eyes, like he might just start snarling and scraping at his face if he gets any closer. He remembers seeing those eyes in the mirror when he came back inside in the mornings. He thinks those eyes are why his mother was scared of him- that, and because she knew she was looking into the face of the child she was neglecting. 

“Hey, kid.”

The boy stares at him. House slides down the wall beside him. He knows it’s cold, even though it’s a dream. 

“What was it this time?”

The boy stares dead ahead. It’s hard to tell how old he is in this dream. “Told my moron Biology teacher that he was a moron.”

House snorts. That could have been one of any number of incidents he remembers. 

“I just want people to see me.” The boy cries angry tears, doesn’t wipe them away. “And I want them to know that I’m right. Then they can’t ignore me.”

“Yeah,” House replies. “Yeah.” 

To be better than everyone else. To be right, to get that rush of vindication. _I was right, I deserve to be here. Look at me, LOOK AT ME._ That feeling has never left. 

The porch door opens. The dream world shifts around him, and he can’t tell if its daytime or night. He sees the silhouette of his father- too blurry and delirious for House to see his face. The greens of his uniform are all his mind can conjure accurately in his sleep. That and the hand on his arm- is it his arm, or the boy’s?- the feeling of a man far stronger than him pulling, squeezing his wrist and tugging him, and then suddenly they’re in the garage and there’s an image that House has never been able to purge from his mind: the metal tub of ice water. It’s an image that flashes through his mind sometimes, an image that’s so mercurial that he can never think about it too long, and yet it always somehow manages to intrude when he wants it least. Moments of happiness evaporating away because the image of a tub full of ice, and the memory of a smell- paint-stripper and exhaust fumes. 

_“No- no- you can’t make me-”_

His father never used to speak when he did this. He was only ever large hands on small wrists, writhing and kicking. Until eventually he was house-trained enough to just get in without a word himself. Both of them silent in this mutually agreed torture. Now, in this dream, it’s a blur of several memories- an overlay of all the different times he was forced into the tub of ice, like transparent squares of film placed over one another. 

_No-_

House sits bolt upright in bed. Sweating, his lips salty. His chest. His breathing, he can’t stop breathing. 

He lies there for some time. The morning comes through his curtains. Oh yeah- he’s in London. Today is the first day of the conference. 

“House.” Wilson’s voice, outside the door. “House. Get up.”

Leaning forward, rubbing the pain in his thigh. Rubbing his face with the other. His skin is sticky and clammy. “He’s not here,” he calls.

 _Well. Today is just going to be a delight_ , he thinks.

***

It can’t be sarcoidosis. And they’ve ruled out cancer. That type of rash indicates an infection, but an infection where, exactly, is a mystery. House knocks his chin against his cane. He stares at the balcony floor, chalky notes written with the sharp end of a stone. 

_Fever. Rash. Fatigue. Ache. Vomiting. Seizures. Night-terrors. Mood swings._

Somewhere inside, music is playing. House is sat on the balcony of the adjacent room to the conference hall, where there’s an end of conference drinks party going on. It was dull, House couldn’t stop thinking about the case, Wilson was being his usual affable self which made him want to punch walls, so he decided to take himself elsewhere. And now he’s here, staring at the scratchy handwriting on the floor. 

These symptoms appeared when the kid first came in with meningitis. Then he was fixed up, nice and shiny new. Then he came in even worse, and with even more symptoms, and now his organs are shutting down. 

House exhales slowly. Swing music plays next door. He’s taken off his dinner jacket, even though he’s cold. It’s dark and London is busy down below, even on a Thursday night. People are heading out to clubs and bars already. It’s only nine pm. The noise would usually be irritating and jarring, but he’s focused. All he sees now is the image of a human body in his mind’s eye, the symptoms it presents, and the Rubik’s cube puzzle to solve. 

They gave the kid antivirals, and steroids for the swelling. Maybe it wasn’t the antiviral that this is responding to. Maybe-

Oh. 

“Ah, shit.” House exhales again through his nose, knocking his forehead against his cane. 

He takes out his phone. Real life comes back to him, and the streets below emit their noise of people and traffic. The lights in the buildings across are still on, people working late, apartment buildings. Someone’s TV playing the news. The top of a double decker bus halts in front of his balcony, just below eyeline. A child waves at him through the window. He waves back, unsmiling. 

Someone picks up. _“House?”_

“Where’s the rash?”

The team go quiet. Then Cameron: _“His hand, spreading up his arms.”_

House winces, rubs his forehead. “When did he come off the steroids?” 

_“Only last night,_ ” Chase says, voice beginning to understand. _“It hid swelling…”_

 _“Osteomyelitis?”_ Foreman poses, voice distant and slightly distorted with the connection. _“That explains almost all the symptoms, and the steroids covering it up makes sense. When we nuked the viral meningitis, the bacterial infection in his bones-”_

“Get a full body CT.”

Another pause. “ _You always say full body CTs are useless.”_

“Yeah, but all we need to see is his bones and how many fractures he’s had. Old and new.” 

The pauses are increasing in width. Cameron: _“Are you suggesting we call child services?”_

 _“It explains the night-terrors. Bone fractures in his hands indicates abuse,”_ Foreman adds. “Untreated bone fractures at that.”

House sighs. He knocks his head against his cane harder. “Wait until we get a full diagnosis. Put him on the meds. Get the scans. Do _not_ call them until we have a diagnosis,” he growls. “I don’t care what Cuddy says.”

 _“We’ll keep you updated,_ ” Chase replies. 

And then the line cuts short. 

It’s not often that he cares deeply about cases. He’s found that he can fool himself into thinking he doesn’t give a shit ninety nine percent of the time. About fifty percent of the time, he really doesn’t give a shit. But on that rare one percent, he can’t even pretend that he’s not invested. This case, from the start, made him nervous. This kid. Something that never happens. And now, he knows why. 

The balcony door opens behind him. He doesn’t turn to look, sat on the patio chair and leaning on his cane, face down. 

“Thank you… _so_ much for leaving me in there.”

House rubs his eyes. He’s tired. Jet-lagged, he guesses. “It was a crappy party.”

“Yeah, even more of a reason why I didn’t totally enjoy being abandoned to a sea of neurologists. Really, the egos were suffocatingly large.”

He falls back in the chair. The lights blur in his vision from rubbing his eyes. Wilson leans against the balcony wall beside him, bow tie perfect and a cigar in his mouth. Very James Bond. It makes House’s gaze linger for a moment. Then passes the cigar to House, and House accepts it, taking a slow drag. He blows out rings. 

“I thought we could, I dunno… get drunk. Trash the place.” Wilson looks out at the view below. “We could be in a pub right now, drinking somewhere without a room full of jock surgeons. I knew you hated me, but still. I’d like to be proven wrong, sometime.”

When he doesn’t reply, Wilson changes tack and goes quiet himself. It’s unusual that teasing won’t get House to talk, but right now, he doesn’t particularly want to. He isn’t even sure why he invited Wilson along on this trip anyway, when he knows it’ll just make him miserable. Who is he kidding- he invited Wilson along _wanting_ to feel miserable. He _loves_ how much loving Wilson kills him from the inside. He’s been trained to accept pain in place of pleasure. A two-day trip to London together in the same hotel seemed like the perfect kind of torture, an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. Now, though, he’s wishing that he hadn’t come. This unrequited crap is mostly manageable, like every other pain in his life- sometimes, though, it’s _barely_ manageable. Especially when Wilson pulls stunts like this morning. That hand holding thing. 

The problem with being the kind of person who never lets anyone into his life is that when he does, he lets them in too far. Let’s them all the way in until he can’t breathe without them. Until he resents them for it.

House drops his cane against the floor, the rubber bottom making it bounce. Stares at the window across the road. It’s only just cool enough out here to make his breath foggy. He feels raw. 

“I’ve not seen you this invested in a case for a while,” Wilson remarks gently. 

House tastes the cigar smoke on his tongue. He takes another drag before returning it to Wilson, rolling the smoke around his mouth before releasing it in a long, indulgent breath. “He’s a human being. You’re the one constantly reminding me that I’m meant to care about those.”

A couple of cars have a honking match down below. “What changed your mind this time?”

“I figured it out.”

A brief pause. “And?” 

House doesn’t respond at first. He’s not sure himself why he cares this much. The parallels between the two of them are obvious, but he’s treated plenty of children who might be at risk of abuse in the past. Somehow, this time, though-

“Osteomyelitis. Steroids from the meningitis masked it.”

Wilson whistles. “That’s a lot of pain to go through for a kid. For anyone, really. How did he even manage to contract it? Fractures would have to be untreated, or-”

“He’s being abused,” House interrupts, matter of fact, lips pursed.

It’s like he can hear the moment Wilson’s stomach drops. The world, swallowing him up. “Shit,” he says. 

“Still gotta prove it,” House remarks, bouncing his cane again. “My money’s on the dad.”

“Have you-?”

“My team are on it.”

London is big. It’s been so long since he’s visited; the last time was when he was with Stacy, for an infectious disease conference. Stacy had pretended she didn’t want to come, hoping House would pick up on it and bring her along. He did pick up on it. He didn’t bring her along. 

Wilson takes a long drag beside him, tapping the ash onto the balcony wall. House stands up and joins his side, hanging his cane on the ledge and leaning on his elbows. And suddenly, they’re back in Princeton again. He looks down the road. A hen party staggering down the street. A taxi spewing out some tourists. A man on his bike, shouting at someone jaywalking. Further down this road, he remembers a pub he went to in Covent Garden, with plants hanging outside from the roof and people drinking outside on the streets. The other way is China Town, which he didn’t visit. He didn’t exactly do much exploring outside of the local drinkeries. 

“You should call child services.” Wilson speaks quietly. They both look down at the street, not each other. 

“Even if we do,” House says, voice even, “he’ll still have a lifetime of shit to deal with.”

Wilson looks at him. House doesn’t look back. “He reminds you of yourself.” 

Hearing Wilson say it makes it too real. He shakes his head minutely, casts his gaze up to the sky. “Wow. Congratulations, two plus two _does_ equal four.”

“This kid doesn’t need to suffer like you did. You figured it out. You’ve saved him when no one else would save you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” House dismisses. Ah, there’s that familiar sick-anger rising from his stomach. 

“You did good, House.”

“ _Shut up_.” 

He hangs his head and finds himself smiling. That angry, bitter smile that comes from somewhere dark. Wilson does shut up, though. They both do, for a while. They stay outside for another half hour, not speaking, just looking. Sharing a cigar and sharing each other’s space. 

House could never do this with Stacy- he could never just exist, not without it turning into something. A conversation, sex, watching a movie. It never occurred to him when he was with her that he needed this, to just be. It never occurred to him when he was with Stacy that he was also in love with Wilson, but that’s another matter. He can ignore things like that. He has an Olympic gold medal in burying feelings. 

The night turns colder and there’s a small breeze. It picks up the sleeves of his shirt, cufflinks undone. It plays with Wilson’s hair, and it makes him jealous. 

“Let’s get drunk,” Wilson suddenly suggests. 

House thinks about it. “I’m good.”

“We can just go back to one of our rooms. Crack open whatever shit they have in the minibar. Or, I dunno, swipe a bottle from next door. They have some decent whisky going.”

“I’m good,” House repeats. 

Wilson lets it rest, and they look out at the view some more. A couple of minutes later, House’s phone rings.

 _“You were right,”_ Foreman says on the other end. _“Fractures on almost all his fingers.”_

House closes his eyes, sighs. He feels his breath warm his face. “Call child services.”

He puts down the phone before they ask him any more questions. Wilson is looking at him, but not saying anything. House feels seen. It makes him squirm, a feeling somewhere between validated and frightened. 

Then, after a long exhale, House breaks the silence. “Let’s get drunk.”

Wilson nods beside him, smacks him on the back and guides him inside. 

***

He hasn’t laughed this much in- ever. It’s like a muscle, laughing. It’s something that needs to be used and worked, because if you don’t, it atrophies. Thing is, the only person who actually gets him to laugh is Wilson, but when he does, it’s a real workout. 

He hates Wilson for making him so goddamn happy. And against all the odds, too. 

The idiot is currently in House’s bath, fully clothed, no water- just lying in the tub with his feet poking over the edge, a bottle of whiskey in his right hand and House’s sunglasses on top of his head. His bowtie was lost ages ago, he can’t remember when. He just remembers watching when Wilson took it off, drunk eyes following the movement of his fingers, the top button of his shirt opening and showing his clavicle. 

Wilson knocks the heels of his brogues together, calves against the rim of the roll-top tub. “Look, look,” he points at House, seriously. “Look, see? Look, your bath is a pile of shit compared to mine, it’s so small. My bathtub is _bigger_ than yours. Na-na-na- _na_ -na.”

House sits on the counter of the sink, leaning against the wall mirror. He jabs his cane at Wilson as he drinks straight from the bottle, and Wilson dribbles down his shirt so the crisp white stains gold. 

“You’re a child,” House accuses, voice slurring.

“Wh- I- wh- y- I’m a child? You’re a child, you’re the big baby, getting all… angry and jealous because the nasty rich man tattled on him in school. Waaa, waaaaaaa.” 

Wilson rubs his eyes with his fists, mock crying. House jabs him in the cheek again with his cane. 

“Why are you in my tub.”

“Because-” Wilson begins, bottle sloshing. Then he frowns, staring at a point of the bathroom wall. “I don’t remember. I think…”

“You look like…” he grimaces, tries to think of something witty to say. See, he’s never funny when he’s drunk. Just childish and giddy. He winces, waving his hand vaguely. “You look stupid. You look like a crappy pin-up.”

“ _You’re_ stupid,” Wilson retorts. “And I’d make an excellent pin-up.”

“No you would _not_. You’re not enough of a bad-boy to make a good-pin up. Your market would be grandmas, not actual attractive women.”

“Women find me endearing,” Wilson slurs. Then, “Oh, God. That’s depressing.”

House smirks. “Women find you endearing in the same way they puppies endearing.” He watches Wilson slide further into the tub, wrinkling his nose and scrunching his eyes shut. “Your exes found you endearing because you didn’t even realise you were dating them, so they had to jump _you_. You give them all the control and they get off on it, that’s what makes you sexy-”

“You don’t know what my exes think…” Wilson says with suspicion, eyeing House where he’s sat on the counter. 

“I do know,” he pokes him with his cane again, still smirking, “because Bonnie told me when she was showing me that overpriced warehouse apartment.”

Wilson’s eyes widen, blearily. “What’d she say? House? What’d she say?”

“She said she had to make the first move because you were dumb enough to think you were just hanging out as friends, and that it made you sexy how oblivious you were. Which is stupid,” House adds. Just as he realises that he’s skirting dangerous territory. But his curiosity gets the better of him and his tongue is loose, so- “and that you’re great in bed.”

Wilson scrabbles upright, then slides down into the tub again. “What? She said that? Really?”

“Her exact words were “nobody works harder” at sex. I wouldn’t take that as a compliment.” He manages to leave out the part where he’s fantasised about Wilson working hard for _him_ , but it’s whatever. 

He looks very satisfied with himself. “Nice.”

“Oh, come on! She basically called you a pet! You’re no better than a vibrator!”

“Don’t care,” Wilson kicks his feet together. “I’m great in bed.”

Time to change the topic. House had left Wilson under the impression that the reason he met with Bonnie and grilled her was because he was jealous of him and liked Cuddy. He doesn’t want him to figure out that it’s actually the other way around. “Pass the whisky.”

With some effort, Wilson leans and House leans until the bottle is exchanged. House drinks. He’s dizzy. Wilson drank from the same spot, and he wishes he could taste it. 

“And, by the way, I’m not gay,” Wilson adds, stifling a burp. 

House snorts, almost choking on whisky as he remembers their earlier debate at the breakfast buffet. “You work hard to please women because you feel guilty. James Three-Divorces Wilson.”

“Divorces with _women_.”

House gesticulates wildly. “Exactly!”

“I like women. I like sex with women. I like dating them. I’m not gay.” Wilson frowns, chin tucked to his chest like he’s trying not to burp again. “And you’re enjoying this too much.”

“There are other options on the menu, you know. All your favourite top hits, including L, G, B and T- and many, many more-” 

“I’m not a lesbian,” Wilson laughs, rubbing his face. 

“You listen to K. D. Lang.”

“You’re right, I am a lesbian, that’s the only explanation.”

“You’re bisexual.” 

House waits for the penny to drop. Or, alternatively for the comeback. There isn’t one, and Wilson stares at the label of the Jack Daniels in House’s hands. Then, lets his head knock against the ceramic, gazing at the ceiling with wide, aghast eyes. 

“I’m-” Wilson’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, head retracting until he has triple chin. A bit like a frightened pug. “I’m- I’ve never even thought of it that way. I figured… if I like women, then that’s it. I mean, I’ve heard of people being bisexual, but it never occurred to me that _I_ could be.”

House responds with a tut, waving him off dismissively. “You’re so last season, Wilson. It’s 2007. Get with the times.”

“This is… House-” He sits up in the bath with some effort, hands on the rolltop sides. “House, this explains _so much_.”

“Another mystery solved.”

“Don’t act so satisfied!” he exclaims, looking delightfully distressed. It makes House, actually, very satisfied. “This changes everything. Everything! The way I see the world is going to change forever-”

“Oh, calm down. You’re bi. So’s five percent of the entire planet.”

“That’s- you pulled that statistic out of your ass.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Is… I mean, do I give off a vibe, or something?” Wilson is still trying to climb out of the bath. His voice is going high-pitched and anxious. “Is that why people constantly think I’m gay, or think _we’re_ gay? Do I, I dunno, dress better than straight men or something?”

“Tch- you wouldn’t know good fashion if it kicked you in the testicles.”

Wilson slips back into the bathtub. House laughs at him, takes another swig of whisky. The bottle’s getting emptier, too empty. 

“This! Isn’t me trying to get your opinion on my wardrobe!” Wilson cries. 

“Someone needs to.”

“Yes, haha, anyone would think that _you’re_ the kinda gay one.”

“ _Bisexual_. No biphobia under my roof, thank you very much.”

The bathroom feels suddenly loud, the tiled walls too thin, echoing back everything he’s saying. It’s making him self-conscious. Which means he should drink more, so he does. 

Wilson’s stare becomes more analytical. And then he points an accusatory finger. “You!”

House frowns at him. “Don’t point your finger at me.”

“You! You didn’t deny it! You’re bisexual, aren’t you!”

“Stop bullying me, or I’ll tell the teacher,” he mock-whines. 

“You- you aren’t denying it!” Wilson flaps his hands about. “This is unbelievable! You give me all the shit for not being straight, and you’re sat over there just as gay as I am!”

House stares at him, holding the Jack Daniels near his lips. Then, like he’s talking to a moron, “ _Bi-sex-u-al_.”

“When were you going to tell me? I’m you’re best friend!”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Oh- yes, of course, I see, but my sexuality is your business?”

God, House hates him. He hates and he loves. Big, dark eyes and sharp cheekbones and pronounced cupid’s bow. Hair everywhere, messy, whisky stains on his clothes. Dishevelled, just for him. Just how he likes it. House ignores the question, drinking deeply from the bottle. It gives Wilson the chance to get out of the bath, and he offers no helping hand. He vaults one leg over to the bathmat, only just managing not to slip. 

“Let’s go out,” Wilson announces, unexpectedly- just as he’s managed to stand upright again. 

House looks at him. He doesn’t know what expression is on his face, but it’s enough to transfix Wilson, so they’re just staring at each other in his ensuite bathroom. 

House slaps his leg. “Hurts.”

“Just somewhere local. Somewhere that does tequila.”

“You black out with tequila.”

“Exactly. I have no desire to remember this conversation.”

House huffs a laugh. He feels Wilson’s stare. It trails down his body, and for a moment, he thinks he’s checking him out. But then he realises he’s looking for the Jack Daniels bottle in his hand. He passes it to Wilson. And House _does_ check Wilson out, watching the way his throat moves when he drinks. 

“Fine.” House slides off the sink counter. “Let’s go.”

They do. They almost forget their wallets, but they do make it out of the hotel without arousing too much suspicion, staggering through the atrium in rumpled formal wear. Wilson tries to act casual, at one point even saying ‘hi’ to a passer-by. House scowls at him and smacks him round the back of the head for it. 

Outside is cold. Neither of them feels it. House tries to get his bearings, decides he doesn’t need them, and starts ambling down Mercer Street towards Covent Garden. Wilson is left behind on the doorstep of the hotel, scratching his head and talking to himself, thinking House is there and listening. House takes pleasure in leaving him there, looking like an idiot, waiting for him to jog and catch up. They pass by several groups of parties, people queuing outside of club doors, kids who’ve stolen IDs, women too old for the dresses they’re wearing. They’re too old for this, too, but it doesn’t matter because Wilson is stumbling into him, laughing at nothing, their arms bumping, and House loves it. It’s easy to forget things with Wilson.

The pub with the plants crawling down the outside, people smoking through the open windows and shiny, dark green tiles over the exterior. House leads them inside. It’s noisy and smoky. There’s a soccer- _football_ match playing on a TV above the bar, and there’s a bizarre mixture of pot-bellied regulars and students in here. The middle of the room has become a makeshift dance floor, drunk women in their forties dancing, holding hands and crying on each other’s shoulders. 

House pushes his way to the front of the bar with his cane, pretending to be apologetic when he hits people with it. Wilson slips beside him, elbow on the bar, and House buys them both a tequila. 

Wilson watches with wide eyes as the bartender slices lime. “What? You’re buying _me_ a drink?”

“Looks like.”

“I thought I was the one trying to cheer you up.”

“I probed you for the details of your sexual orientation, consider this as close to an apology as you’ll ever get.”

Wilson narrows his eyes. “You just want me to get drunker and admit more deep dark secrets about myself.”

Not necessarily. “You got me,” House lies. “Although you didn’t really admit anything. I just diagnosed you as a gormless bisexual.”

Four shots of tequila lined up in front of them, and a tub of salt. They down them both in sync, the glasses hitting the bar at the exact same time. 

“Hwwwaaaah,” Wilson winces.

“Big baby.”

“Fuck you.”

House smirks, wiping his mouth. Wilson watches. 

“Tequila: purchased and drunk,” House announces. He slams his hand on the bar. “What now?”

Wilson points at him. “You tell _me_ a secret. No cheating, I can tell when you’re lying.”

“No you _can’t_ ,” House scoffs.

“I can-”

“Bull _shit_.” Then, with eyes widening and a lovely sense of understanding settling on him, Wilson smiling evilly- “You bastard. You’re getting _me_ drunk.”

“You think you’re so smart.” He shoves House in the chest, and he bumps into the guy behind him. He pulls him back by the collar of his shirt, and House isn’t so drunk that he doesn’t feel his hand on his chest for that microsecond of contact. It makes his mouth hang open. Admittedly, drunkenly. “You think you’re so clever, House, but you’re just as capable of being seduced by alcohol.”

House stares at his face. His messy hair. God, he loves it when Wilson is messy, when he isn’t perfect for everyone else. “True,” he admits, admitting more than Wilson knows. 

“So tell me. When was the first time you realised…” he looks around the bar to check if anyone’s listening. “You know.”

House giggles behind his hand mockingly, and furtively replies, “Oh, you mean _gay sex_?”

“Fine, let’s go with that. When was your first time? Oh, er-” he grabs the bartender’s attention, “two pints of Guinness, please.”

House snorts. “As if you drink Guinness.”

“What! When in Rome- or London- right?”

George Baker’s ‘Little Green Bag’ is playing in the background. House raises his brows at him. Why do his cheeks hurt?

“Stop deflecting- first time. Go.”

House looks down, sees the Guinness pushed towards him. He hides behind the glass, milky white froth poised at his lips. “You don’t wanna know.”

“No, see, that’s where you’re wrong,” Wilson slurs, “I absolutely one hundred percent do.”

“Fine- I don’t want you to know.”

“I don’t believe you. You totally, unsubtly may I add, came out to me. You want to talk to me about this shit, you’re just surprised that I’m asking.”

House drinks to hide his smile. One thing he loves more than Wilson looking like a mess is when he turns into a complete bastard and interrogates him. He usually hates it even more- but only when he’s sober. Wilson takes a drink from his pint, licks the foam from his top lip. House watches, unashamed, too drunk not to indulge himself in staring. “First week at Johns Hopkins,” he lies.

Eyes widen. “Holy- wait, wait. You’re lying.”

“Yeah, I’m lying. See, this is a fun game, we could do this all night.” 

“No, be honest-”

The song changes. The opening notes are enough to give House war-flashbacks to the various nights out they had in their early thirties. 

Wilson has frozen mid-sentence, and House can tell that he’s trying not to react. Debating with himself whether to keep pressing House for more information, or to fangirl over the song. Wilson ends up electing for the latter.

“ _Fuck_ \- this song.” 

“God. You want to dance, don’t you,” House grimaces. “We’re going-”

Too late. Wilson is drumming against the bar and singing, “ _You were working as a waitress at a cocktail bar-_ ”

“How white-girl wasted are you?” he asks, as if he isn’t intimately familiar with Wilson’s various drunk stages. He only ever gets like this when he’s at a certain level of drunk. One more drink, and he’ll be too dizzy to dance. One less, and he’d be too humiliated to try. 

“I’m at that perfect, white-girl-wasted sweet spot,” Wilson confirms, continuing to drum to Human League. 

And then he grabs House’s arm. 

“No.”

“Come on.”

“Just because _you’re_ drunk enough to act like an idiot-”

“Come on!”

“I don’t go out dancing-”

“You used to.”

“I’m a cripple now-”

“I’ve seen you dance to yourself in your office-”

“That’s not the same-”

“You don’t usually have any qualms with embarrassing yourself-”

This shitty little pub. With drunk locals and hen parties and middle-aged women drinking vodka cranberries. The only thing that gets House to join him in the end is when he thinks about how utterly mortified Wilson will be tomorrow morning when he remembers this. It makes him smirk. And it makes him absolutely delighted when he sees Wilson air-pianoing and mouthing the lyrics badly, forgetting them in a drunken haze. 

Wilson was always bad at dancing. Dad-dancing, shuffling from one foot to the other. When he’s drunk, he goes crazy and moves his arms, too. Jumping up and down and flailing. House likes to think that he, meanwhile, has some rhythm- right now he thinks he’s putting out some _excellent_ moves, but by the way Wilson is laughing right in his face, he’s probably wrong. And then David Bowie’s ‘Rebel Rebel’ comes on, and everything else outside of him and Wilson may as well be forgotten. He’s too much of a sucker for a good tune. 

How drunk _is_ he?

Wilson is pushed, and House catches him by the arms. And he looks up at him, eyes wide and staring into House’s. Hands on his chest. Wilson’s breath smells like lime and Guinness. 

“I’m gonna puke,” he says with sad certainty.

House rolls his eyes, turns him around by the biceps and guides him out of the pub. As soon as they’re out in the cold, Wilson stumbles to the nearest alleyway and, lo and behold, pukes. House has to go back inside to retrieve his cane. When he returns, he leans against the wall behind him, out of the splash-zone. 

“Can you hold your booze better than your sorority sisters, or are they just as bad?” House asks, arms folded over his chest. 

Wilson leans a hand against the wall and moans. “Guinness and tequila don’t mix.”

“You’re a pussy.”

He gets a middle finger for that. The music from the pub rings out of the windows. Wilson stands up straight, camel coat and white shirt and cummerbund, rubbing his face groggily. 

“Tactical puke over,” House announces. He pulls the Jack Daniels out of his coat pocket. 

Wilson’s jaw drops. “You had that with you the entire time?”

“Yeah. Duh,” House chides.

He takes a swig. Then he passes the bottle, and Wilson resigns to having some too, making sure to pour it into his mouth from a distance without his lips touching the bottle. They stagger out of the alleyway, leaning against the pub wall. He checks the time. 

“Holy shit- we were in there for an hour?” Wilson remarks, seeing House’s watch. 

House doesn’t respond, takes another drink from the JD. He puffs clouds of steamy breath into the air. 

“I never apologised,” Wilson says. 

Closing his eyes, he leans his head against the wall. “Ugh. No, don’t do your thing. This is fun. Don’t ruin it.”

“That night I found you in your apartment, on Christmas Eve… I just left you there, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. All of it, all the stuff with Tritter- it was- all of it was so fucked up, and I never apologised.”

House frowns, scrunching up his face and rolling his head drunkenly from side to side. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Wilson doesn’t say anything. “You OD’d. In your apartment. And I… I was so angry when I found you that as soon as I saw you were OK, I left. It was… I should have…”

“Should have what?” House demands. He rolls his head over to scrutinise Wilson, who barely looks like he’s sobered up at all and is gazing at him with puppy-dog eyes. “Saved me? Cured me? Patted me on the head and told me it would all be OK? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I-! House- I abandoned you!” he cries.

“That’s a load of crap and you _know_ it-”

“I could have done more! I should have done something-”

Wilson breaks, hanging his head. Rubbing his face. Chaka Khan is playing inside, and House watches the man he loves wallow in useless guilt because of him. 

“I wouldn’t respect you if you did any more for me. In fact, I don’t really know if I respect you for all that you _did_ do.” 

Wilson laughs. It’s a miserable, angry laugh. Lifting his head and shaking it, staring at the sky. “You’re an asshole.”

“Exactly!” House explodes. “Have some self-worth! Stop sacrificing yourself for the asshole who abuses your trust and friendship- I’m the one who pushed you away and treated you like shit, you’re an idiot for even trying. I’m the one who should be apologising, not you, so fucking grow a pair.”

Wilson glares at the pavement, shoulders heaving. House watches him. He wants to make him angry. He wants him to stand up for himself. He wants him to finally decide it’s enough. He wants this to be over, because he wants to know- he just wants to _know_ , not live in the constant fear that maybe one day, Wilson will decide to leave. He needs for Wilson to snap, so he doesn’t have to spend the rest of his life tortured with hope. 

Eventually, Wilson sighs. Laughs again, less angrily now. More resigned. “You did apologise.”

House blinks. “ _God_ , when will you give up?”

“You _did_ apologise.”

“Not enough.”

They look at each other. A long, painful moment. And then House looks away. 

“I don’t apologise enough,” he says again. “I’m sorry.”

The street fills up with people being kicked out of pubs. Wilson exhales slowly. “How drunk are you exactly?”

House closes his eyes and smiles. “Very.”

He feels a shove on his arm. “Come on. Let’s head back.”

They start walking home, slowly. They get lost on the way. Somehow, they end up in Seven Dials, walking around in circles- literally- until they realise that they went down the wrong street. London is designed like a labyrinth. And then, despite everything, despite their arguments and House’s case and Wilson’s divorce and everything in their lives turning to shit, they’re laughing again, stumbling home and bumping into each other. 

When they get back to the hotel, Wilson stashes the JD in his coat so he looks like a crappy drug dealer. Walking through the atrium, House speaks loud enough that he gets a stern glare from the receptionist, and Wilson giggles and makes frantic ‘shhh!’ noises at him. 

The elevator makes House woozy. He feels like crap, but simultaneously euphoric. 

Wilson is blearily trying to find the right button for their floor. House stabs the button for the roof. 

“Roof? Why roof? We’re not roof,” Wilson slurs nonsensically. 

“We’re roof now,” House replies. “Got an idea.”

Wilson slumps against the wall of the lift with his eyes closed, looking like he might fall asleep on his feet. House slaps him in the face with both hands against his cheeks and Wilson moans, forcing his eyes open. 

“I’m not tired,” he complains. 

“Good, night’s not over.”

House has the stamina of a bull when it comes to drinking, so he leads them out of the lift with a leisurely saunter. It’s only when they’re both on the roof that he realises he left his cane in the lift. Ah, well. Too drunk to feel it, yet. 

Wilson steps outside onto the roof, arms wide in the cold, head tilted to look at the sky. “Look at that.”

House limps past him, turns to view Wilson, who’s staring, gawping, looking like shit and more lovely than ever. “Saving the best bit ‘til last.”

They turn the corner, and there: a pool. Warm and steamy, blue tiles lit up. It overlooks the city, a glass partition between them and the London horizon. He gestures to the pool, standing at the edge. Wilson stands beside him. 

“House- are we allowed up here? At one in the morning?” 

“Who cares,” he says lightly. 

He pushes Wilson in. 

From the edge, House watches the bubbles disperse and the ripples of the unnatural-blue water splash over the edges. Wilson’s shape blurs under the water, and then he bursts out from under the surface, spitting a chute of chlorine. 

“You- ugh- you asshole-” he splutters. Hair sticking to his face. 

Bonnie was right. It is sexy, how endearing he is. 

“You look good wet,” he jokes, not joking at all.

“Well at least I’m _sober_ now- wait- oh, come on, you are getting in too, right? This wasn’t just you bulling me-?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a twist.” 

This had seemed like an excellent idea a few minutes ago, and honestly it still seems like an excellent idea; he’s drunk and the pool is warm and swimming is always nice on his leg, anyway. Leaning onto his hands, he slips his good leg in first, drops into the shallow end, white shirt billowing. He sees Wilson through the steam rising from the surface, dark hair slicked to his forehead. It somehow makes him look younger, his eyes look bigger. Hands skimming the surface of the pool. 

“You didn’t even give me a chance to push _you_ in,” Wilson complains, drifting over. 

“Not allowed to push me in. I’m disabled. Technically a hate crime.”

It’s too late- by the time House has seen the look in Wilson’s eye, there isn’t enough time to escape. 

“Yeah, well, is _this_ -”

He’s dunked under the water. The chlorine stings his eyes, and his feet slip along the floor of the pool. There’s that horrible moment when he doesn’t know which way is up- then his balance wins against the alcohol in his system, and he remerges. 

“Fuck you-”

Wilson is cackling. And House struggles to reach him, drags him under the water with him until they’re wrestling. At some point, it feels stupid to drunkenly fight under water, and they both emerge again. It would be a dumb way to die.

House pushes himself over to the edge of the pool, one hand on the wall and the other wiping his face. The water laps up against him, his shirt sticks to his skin. And it takes a moment, but when he manages to focus his eyes through the stinging and blurred vision, he sees the view through the glass partition. London city lights, St Paul’s cathedral lit up. Rooftop bars with fairy lights. Wilson leans his arms against the wall beside him. 

Looking over at him now, red-cheeked and steamy breaths, clothes clinging to him, a total mess; it reminds him of times with Stacy. Lying in an attic trying to catch a rat with her, washing up beside her, sitting on the sofa beside her. Except, those memories all pale in comparison to this, whatever this is that he has with James Wilson. 

“D’you feel better?” Wilson asks suddenly.

House frowns at him. And then he remembers why they got drunk in the first place, and he blinks the chlorine out of his eyes. “Yeah.”

Their arms touch. The view moves around. He’s drunker than he realised.

He hangs his head, closing his eyes and wincing. “Thanks,” he says, quietly. 

When there isn’t an immediate response, he cracks open his eyes and peers over, head still bowed self-consciously. Wilson is watching, closely. But it’s not analytical, and it’s not a look of surprise. It’s something else. Eyes darting across House’s face. 

Oh crap. He’s going to kiss him.

The lips parted, the gaze flitting down to his mouth- it all points to a kiss, but that makes no sense, because he doesn’t have feelings for House. He’d know if he did, he’d have seen-

Which means that the reason Wilson’s leaning in is because he’s drunk. This is just another thing for tomorrow’s Wilson to regret, and it should make House lean away, but he doesn’t. He feels himself being pulled in, furious with himself, disappointed with himself, too tempted to care.

It’s a good thing that the moment is broken. 

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

They both turn around in rapid sync. A nightguard, with a torch, in hotel uniform. House is too far-gone to see his expression, but he can easily imagine it’s somewhere between disgruntled and amused, judging by the tone of his voice. 

Wilson rubs water from his face, ashamed. “Oh, God.”

“It’s not what you think, officer!” House exclaims in mock horror. 

“Looks to me as if you two boys are havin’ a swim in the hotel pool at one thirty in the morning.”

House nods in concession. “So it is what it looks like.”

“Come on, then, out you get.”

Wilson can’t stop apologising. House can’t stop rolling his eyes at him. They step out of the pool, dripping puddles of water on the stone and leaving soggy footprints. His shoes are filled with water, heavy and sloshy. It’s unpleasant. The nightguard also happens to have retrieved his cane, returning it to him with good humour, House grumbling a thanks. They leave wet marks in the carpet of the corridor. 

They hover outside the doors of their rooms. Wilson complains loudly about his wallet being wet, then remembers the time and complains at a more reasonable volume. House lets himself into his room, and is about to say his goodnight- he wants to make his escape, he has to, before he starts turning into a defensive bitch and making Wilson feel like shit-

“Shit. _Shit_. I can’t find my key. It must have fallen out of my pocket in the pool or something.”

He looks aghast, pulling out the lining of his trouser pockets. And then, there’s the puppy eyes. 

“Too bad. Night,” House says, closing the door. 

A hand stops it. Wilson pokes his head through the gap, glaring. “Let me stay in here, you monster.”

“Perfectly serviceable carpet in the corridor.”

“Yeah, like I’m gonna go to sleep in the corridor!” he hisses, still trying to keep a respectable noise level. 

House looks at him, head poking through the door like in a Scooby Doo skit. He tuts, turns away without another word. 

***

And that must have been the point at which his memory finally blacked out from the alcohol. 

Because when House wakes up in his bed, pillow smelling of chlorine and mouth like tequila, he expects it. What he doesn’t expect to find is Wilson in bed with him, wearing nothing but his underwear and one sock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here come the smut
> 
> if you aren't into that, i'd stop at ' **“Don’t act so smug** "'   
> and then start again at **'The morning is brighter than yesterday’s.** ' to read the end of the chapter.

When Wilson wakes up, House is sitting up in bed. 

Oh. Oh shit, oh fuck. 

He goes with: “Good _God_.”

House’s bare back is turned to him. He’s on his phone, judging by the sound of buttons. “You’re lousy in bed.”

Electric jolts of panic. Then, realising that it’s a joke. Wilson peers under the cover- yep, at least he’s got his boxers on.

“Tryna sneak a peak?” House poses as he texts.

Wilson ignores him, squeezing his eyes shut and wracking his memories. “Did we…? Go swimming last night?”

“Yup,” comes the plosive response. 

“And. The reason I’m in your room is because…”

“You lost your key.”

Wilson presses his head against the pillow. “Ugghhhhh.”

“You also picked a fight with a stranger and landed a punch on his jaw. Ran off before the cops could get you. It was totally rad.”

He narrows his eyes at House’s back. “…No I didn’t,” he says, though he’s not so sure. 

“No, you didn’t.”

“Who’re you texting?”

“Chase,” he grunts.

Ah. Either an update on last night’s nightmare case, or a new one. Whichever it is, Wilson reckons it’s not worth pressing for more information. 

“What time is it?”

“Eleven fifteen.”

“Ugh. We have a flight in four hours. I need to get to my room and pack, but I think if I move I’ll just puke everywhere.”

“Not in here,” House warns seriously. “Go find a key at reception. Take your college freshman alcohol tolerance elsewhere.”

House is a lousy friend at the best of times. It’s not as if he’s expecting him to roll out the welcome party and let him stay in his room. But he does seem a little shorter with him than usual this morning. 

“How’re you feeling?” he tries, arm behind his head. 

He doesn’t turn to answer. Grey light through the thin curtains shining across his shoulders. “Fine.”

Hmm. “Judging by the one-word responses, I’d say you’re feeling even more like someone crapped in your skull than I do-”

“I said I’m fine, just leave already.”

Wilson takes a moment to recalibrate. Last night House had been so… And now. Now, he’s so-

“OK. I shall take my leave,” he responds with as much humour as he can. 

Sitting up is hard. It makes his stomach slosh and lurch. He wonders if downstairs are doing food at all, even if it’s late. If he’s going to survive the next four hours packing and sitting in an airport, then another seven on a plane, he’s going to need sustenance. He picks up his trousers- damp- and his shirt- damp, also- and forces himself to put them on, just for the transition next door. 

House is sitting on the edge of the bed. Shoulder muscles and dimples in his lower back, hands against the duvet. Head hanging. 

Wilson stares for a little too long. Then he grabs his things and leaves. 

The receptionist doesn’t even bother to hold back a smile when they see him, shirt wrinkled and shoes in his hands. It’s kind of nice in a way- they obviously think it’s endearing, how stupid he looks. They have a bit of banter about what he got up to last night, Wilson confirms that he understands that he’ll be losing his deposit for the missing key, and they hand him a new one. 

His room is nice and tidy. He’d left it that way before going down to the end of conference party, and he’d dropped his jacket off on the bed before they went out to the pub-

“Ugh, no,” he groans to himself, suddenly remembering dragging House to dance with him. How does he manage to reach such shameless heights? It’s not just the booze and House’s company- it’s him, too. He’s ridiculous.

He takes a shower. Finds some more biscuits in the tray left by housekeeping, which makes his stomach turn. The sugar and salt in them makes him feel a bit better, though. He changes, and suddenly feels a lot less like he’s been drowned in whisky and chlorine. And it feels as if he should be feeling good, as well as hungover as hell. Happy. But he doesn’t. Not with House being pissy, for whatever reason. Did he… say something last night? He really can’t remember. 

He woke up in his _bed_. In his _boxers_.

Pushing away the strange mix of feelings that realisation evokes- flustered, mortified, amused, a weight on his chest that feels good but painful- Wilson zips up his bag and places his hands on his hips, rallying himself. He needs to go next door and find House. Their taxi will be arriving in fifteen minutes. 

This is going to be a crappy journey home. 

***

House knew this would happen. There were several reasons why he didn’t want last night to end- one of them being because it was fun. Being with Wilson is fun. The second reason was because he knew he’d feel like this in the morning. 

The taxi journey was tense. Wilson was morose, and pretending not to be, gazing out of the car window and watching the rain streaks. House ignored him, and is continuing to ignore him now in the airport, because it’s all he knows to do when he feels the hope creeping up on him, its traitorous siren song telling him to give in. To accept that there’s someone that makes him happy. He’s been trained to reject those sorts of things. 

They’re at the airport early- earlier than they need to be, but Wilson is neurotic about these sorts of things. And House usually gets a kick out of that, taking as much time as he can to make them a little bit later, just a little bit more rushed to catch their flight, to stress Wilson out. Today he doesn’t have the energy. The hangover has nothing to do with it. 

On the other side of security, they’re sat side by side silently. House pretends to take a nap, slumped in his seat. Wilson is pretending to read a magazine. The waiting area is getting crowded, flight after flight getting cancelled. And he waits for Wilson to say something, to say something benign and stupid to break the tension, but he doesn’t say anything. Maybe House has finally managed to push him away. 

It would be a good thing. Wilson clearly doesn’t remember him leaning in to kiss him last night. 

House cracks open an eye, arms crossed over his chest and legs outstretched. He watches a young woman try and wheel her suitcase around him, and he doesn’t move to let her through. He’s feeling particularly vindictive this afternoon. 

“Crap.”

That gets his attention, along with the chorus of disgruntled noises from the other passengers around him. Wilson is staring at the departures board, miserable resignation on his face. House looks too- and finds that all flights are being grounded. 

“Oh, come on. The weather’s not that bad,” he argues uselessly. 

They both turn to look out of the glass walls of Gatwick airport, and see nothing but grey. Fog and rain and absolutely nothing else. 

“Huh,” House remarks. 

“We need to find a hotel. They’re saying the weather isn’t going to lift until tomorrow afternoon.”

People are picking up their bags lethargically, arguing with each other and taking out their cell phones. House casts his eyes to the heavens and puts his face in his hands. 

Just his luck. Get stranded in London with Wilson, just as he was thinking that he doesn’t have the will to carry on with this façade. 

“Do you think we should find somewhere here?” Wilson asks. He looks exhausted. Like crap. House wishes he didn’t love him so much that he thinks he’s perfect even when he looks like crap. “We could head back into the city if there’s nothing here.”

House twists his lips, avoiding Wilson’s eyes wherever possible. “No. I’ll go find the number for a hotel here. Stay there.”

“I can-”

He doesn’t give Wilson a chance to argue. He heads over to the information desk, tries very hard not to kick and bite at the people in front of him taking forever asking questions. Then he gets a number for a Premiere Inn, just across from the terminal. 

“We need two rooms for tonight,” he says, eyes closed and leaning on his cane. 

“You’re in luck, we’ve just had all of our rooms taken but one.”

He exhales, shakes his head. “Yeah, I did just say _two_ rooms, right? Either I’m going crazy, or you’re an idiot.”

A pause. Then, a little tensely, “Yes, sir, you did. But I’m afraid we only have one.”

That would be the case, wouldn’t it? Perfect. He sighs, eyes still closed and thinking. Weighing up the pros and cons as quickly as he can. And then he turns to look at Wilson, who’s watching him from outside the Swatch shop, both their bags at his feet and a hopeful look of expectancy. He gives a thumbs up and a questioning eyebrow raise. 

House nods to himself, as much as for Wilson’s sake. 

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “We’ll take it.”

***

The second they get to the room, House throws his bag on the floor and disappears into the bathroom slamming the door. Wilson hears him running a bath. 

“Well, you’re just a ray of sunshine today, aren’t you,” he shouts through the door, his annoyance apparent. 

There’s no response. He sits on the bed and lets out the longest, most exhausted breath he thinks he’s ever exhaled in his life. Steam rolls out from under the bathroom door. Wilson listens to the sound of running water and House getting into the bath, is surprised by how intimate he finds that sound. And so, he distracts himself by lying back on the bed, shoes kicked off, and watching the TV. He finds a menu for the restaurant downstairs- some basic grub, some British pub classics. He ate at the airport, so he’s fine for now, but breakfast looks good. He’s half-watching a British soap opera, legs crossed over the ankles and white socked toes wriggling. For a while, it’s nice. It would be relaxing, if it weren’t for the fact that some unknown feeling is sat like an anvil on his chest. And if he could stop thinking ahead to what it’ll be like to share a bed with House- when he’s sober. 

The bathroom door opens about an hour later, just as Wilson is beginning to consider a nap. House emerges, bathroom airer roaring behind him, and his hair towel-dried and at angles. There’s a moment where their eyes meet, and House looks fierce. Eyes large and challenging. His t-shirt has wet patches around his neck where he hasn’t dried off completely. Wilson stares.

And then House ambles over to the bed, waving at him. “Scooch.”

He does, shuffling to the right. House mimics him, leaning against the bedhead and crossing his legs out in front of him. They watch the soap opera, none of which makes sense without context, and say nothing. 

“I think that woman is having an affair with _that_ guy,” Wilson explains after a while, pointing at the screen. House doesn’t respond. “Either that, or they’re in a relationship and they don’t want anyone to know.”

House begins knocking his head against the wall, slow and repetitive and self-flagellating. It makes Wilson want to reach a hand and shield his head. 

“You’re pissed at me,” House says. 

Wilson stares. Blinks at him, hangs his mouth open a little. House won’t look back. “I’m pissed at _you_? Yeah, I am, you’re acting like a sulky child and I can’t figure out why- all I can tell is that _you’re_ pissed at _me_.”

Jaw clenching, a quiet exhale through his nose, House looks the other way. “You’re not pissed enough.”

“I’m-” OK. Now, he’s really confused. “You-? Want me to be angrier at you? You want me to start, throwing shit and calling you names?”

“If it would make you leave,” House replies.

For a long moment, Wilson just stares at him. And then he laughs, infuriated and hurt and confused- he gets up off the bed, stalks to the other side of the room with his hands in his hair. 

“See, this is what I don’t get,” Wilson starts. “Last night, I try to show you a good time to cheer you up. It works! We go out, we act like idiots, we- share deep, dark secrets and we break into the hotel swimming pool. It was _fun_ , it was normal for us- I remember almost none of it, but I do know that much, so why are you acting so hurt?”

He still won’t meet his eye. He’s knocking his head against the wall again, staring up at the ceiling, hands clasped over his stomach. 

“House! What the hell did I say last night that’s made you this angry!”

“I’m not angry!” House suddenly explodes, rolling his eyes.

“Uh- yes, you make a very convincing argument-”

He scoffs, a bitter smile, “I’m not angry.”

“Well it’s clearly _something_!” Wilson argues, pacing along the end of the bed, hands on his hips. “At first I thought you were just hungover, but now I see you’re just playing your fun ‘pushing away’ game.” He adds jazz hands for effect.

House closes his eyes and sighs, head finally stopping against the wall. 

“My God, what did I do that’s caused the sudden mood swing? I mean, I’ve come to expect bitchiness and bullying, but you’ve not even done that today. You’ve gone straight into the cold-shoulder-zone, and I’m thinking there must be a reason for it, something I did that I can’t remember, but hell, what do I know? Maybe you’re just in the mood to make my life extra miserable-”

“I make your life miserable when I prank and pester you,” House interrupts, eyes still closed and brow wrinkled. “Not when I’m ignoring you.”

“Oh- is that so? And you’ve got a _secret camera_ into my _brain_ now?” he cries, sounding a bit hysterical. “You know just what I’m feeling twenty-four-seven? Isn’t that just fucking wonderful! A giant brain and mind-reading powers, you’re well on your way to being the perfect super-villain.”

“I’m not angry at you,” he says again, cold-blue eyes looking up at the ceiling. 

“I don’t believe you,” he says. 

House smiles at the ceiling. “That’s gotta be the first sensible thing you’ve said all day.”

A chasm swells between them. House’s eyes finally meet his. And suddenly, he doesn’t look angry. He looks sad. His eyes look bluer than ever, and his shoulders are loose. It gives him a flash back to last night, standing in the pool, House looking so perfect with wet hair and shirt stuck to his skin and eyes on his lips. 

“That’s what this is,” Wilson says. He points at House from across the room, and he suddenly feels breathless, a little dizzy- “After all this time, you’re still convinced that I’m going to give up on you. Any glimpse of happiness you have, you push away, because it’ll hurt less if you cut ties first. Last night we had fun, we opened up to each other, I made you feel better when you were feeling crappy and it terrified you, so now you’re trying to back away before you get hurt. You’re so allergic to being happy, you’ve got to punish yourself any time you feel a sliver of joy.”

“Yeah, you’ve got me all figured out,” he snarls, standing from the bed. There’s that fierce look again, bright and frightening and animal. “The truth is, you’re incapable of abandoning anyone, even if they deserve it. I’m a charity case for you, and the ‘glimpses of happiness’ you have with me are the only thing that keep you coming back. I’m just an excuse for you to make more a masochist out of yourself, you’re addicted to being miserable-”

“ _I’m_ addicted to being miserable? I’m not the one who flees at the first sight of friendship-”

“You should!” House grins atavistically. “You’re an idiot for not running away!”

“Oh, please, spare me the ‘save yourself’ thing, I don’t wanna hear it-”

“You’re not in love with people, you’re in love with fixing people- you’re drawn to the first person who gives you a thrill, who needs some fixing up, you _live_ off being needed, whilst you go through chicks like days on a desk calendar-”

“I-” Wilson laughs miserably. He throws his hands in the air, looks back at House. And he feels a tearing feeling in his chest- the feeling of some emotion bursting through, something he’s been trying to outrun for too long. “Do you know why my ex-wives left me, House?”

House blinks, clearly taken off-guard. He stands a few meters away, staring. But then he’s back again, yelling- “Because you have a martyr complex larger than-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah- I’m a masochist, I’m attracted to broken people, I’m- a _slut_ , I get bored, you got it all covered. Except those aren’t the reasons, House. You know the real reason why my marriages failed? All three of them?” He pauses. Suddenly, he can’t say this with House staring, so he looks away, walks towards the opposite wall and leans a hand against it. “It’s because I kept coming back to you. My wives all resented you because you were my partner, really, not them. I need you in a way that I never needed them. Their words, not just mine. You always came before them, even if I was never a priority for you.”

Silence gapes. The sound of airplanes lifting off sounds distant, and the fog clings to the window. The TV is still on, the volume low- some advert for detergent. 

“You’re an idiot,” House says quietly. 

Wilson sighs, leans his forehead against the wall. 

House continues. “James Wilson. The moron addicted to sabotaging his own happiness for the benefit of literally anyone else, graduated summa-cum-laude in being a selfless jackass.”

God, he makes him angry. It’s a shame he loves it when he’s an asshole. “Yeah. You know, they tried to print that on the placard on my door, but it was too long.”

He hears the bedsprings move. Turning around, House is lying back on the bed, assuming his original position, staring at the wall. Wilson wills himself to lie beside him. Sat there together, miserable and exhausted, they look like a matching set.

If only the feeling that’s tearing his chest apart would stop. It’s so painful it’s nice. 

“You were wrong about one thing.”

Wilson breathes out slowly, staring at the TV screen. He takes the remote and puts in on mute. “Go on, humour me.”

“About priorities.” For a second, Wilson doesn’t think he’s going to expand. Then: “Remember Coma Guy?” he asks conversationally, tone too light. 

Wilson looks at him with a frown. “Yeah. The guy who made me make him a sandwich in an Atlantic City hotel room, then died to save his son. Hard to forget.”

“Before that. In the car, he was playing twenty questions with me. Only way to get the information I needed to diagnose his son.”

Wilson casts his mind back to the journey. He remembers sitting at the back of his own car, looking at House’s profile, hanging onto any piece of information he might share. It excited Wilson, more than it should have. “I’m following.”

House leans his head against the wall, lets out a long breath. And he speaks slowly, deliberately, like it hurts. “He asked me,” he starts, “whether I’d ever been in love. Told him about Stacy.”

“I… remember,” Wilson says with quiet caution.

“And _then_ , he asked- if I ever loved again. Afterwards.”

For a while House doesn’t say anything. Wilson remembers House not replying to Coma Guy that day, refusing to answer the question. He’d found that in of itself interesting. Now, House is equally quiet. 

And then House turns and looks at him. Their eyes meet. And Wilson knows. 

“You…” Wilson breathes. 

House blinks, looks away, rolls his head back so he’s staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t say another word. Wilson, though- he feels the tearing in his chest increase, until it’s like every emotion his body had been holding is now pouring through, pouring into his blood stream and travelling up to his brain, something toxic and heady and good. 

“I don’t know what to say,” he says, truthfully.

House doesn’t react. And then he purses his lips. “Uh-huh. If the response doesn’t immediately come to you then…”

He trails off. Wilson can’t stop looking at him. This is House- his House, his best friend, tired and hungover and telling him he’s in love with him. And he won’t meet his eye. God, so much makes sense, suddenly.

This is bad. It has to be a bad thing, right? Because this means that House is dependent on him. Which he supposes isn’t news. And Wilson knows for sure that he depends on House, so now they’re just tangled up in each other, needing each other for all the wrong reasons- does House _really_ love him? Or does he just think he does because-

House sighs. “Shut _uuuup_!” 

Wilson’s head snaps round and he stares. “What?” 

“I can hear you overthinking from here- you’re gonna annoy the neighbours. The sound of your internal conflict is deafening.”

Wilson sighs, rubs his forehead. “I need… I need to go for a walk. I need to think about this.”

At that, House finally moves from his unsettlingly still position on the bed. His shoulders heave with a sigh. “Of course you do. Go on, go do your torturous, overthinking thing.”

He stands up, ushering him out of the room. Wilson slides off the bed, blinking. Dizzy. Breaths shallow and chest aching deliciously and eyes trying to tear themselves away from House’s face, the shade of his stubble and his sharp blue eyes. There’s so much to think about- so much he hadn’t realised- so much that he’s only just realising- he needs to understand- what’s the right thing to do-?

“Go, go, get.” House waves him away. 

Wilson opens the door. His body is arguing, telling him to stay. He’s willing himself to put his hand on the handle and keep pushing, to step outside, so he does. 

One last look. He feels like he’s dreaming. House looks like he’s breaking. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he says quietly. 

And then he closes the door. 

***

House watches the door close, and he slumps against the wall, shoulder thudding. Closing his eyes, he replays the scene. The look of shock on his face. A pretty, slack-jawed expression that he’ll never forget, even though he’s dying to. What was he thinking? If he wanted to push Wilson away, he’s definitely done it now. No better way than confessing an awkward, unrequited crush. 

Ten seconds after the door closes, it opens again. 

Wilson steps back into the room, door shutting behind him, key in his hand. “So… I’ve thought about it.” 

He’s stunned. He expected the ‘I’m going to think about it’ announcement; he expected Wilson leaving to wrack his brains over the ethics of this, over the rights and wrongs, poking his feelings until they became numb. This, though- 

“That was quick,” House attempts.

“Yeah. I realised I didn’t need to think about it.”

He’s stepping closer towards him, the slow purpose of someone who has something to say and wants to make it count. And House doesn’t move. He stays exactly where he is, frozen on the spot between the ensuite and open wardrobe- feeling stranded, hooked onto the look on Wilson’s face. A strange look that’s both apprehensive and certain. 

Wilson steps closer. 

“I figured,” he starts, slowly- gaze fluttering between the floor and House’s face- “most of the time, I hate you. You’re… obnoxious and arrogant and cruel-”

“You know just what a girl wants to hear.” 

The joke falls flat as Wilson steps into his space, closer than they’ve ever been without it being a drunk hug or picking each other off the floor. They’ve never been lingering and torturous and breathless like this. 

“Problem is,” Wilson presses on, voice going quieter. Eyes on the collar of House’s shirt. “I’m pretty sure that I love you more than I hate you. Which, kind of… makes it hard to stay away. Always has.”

He wants to say something. He doesn’t want to say anything. All he can do is stare at Wilson, unmoving, unable to move. He doesn’t want to give in. He wants to give in and lay his forehead against Wilson’s. He wants to make a joke about it, say he was only kidding. He wants to tell him he loves him, too. He wants to test him, to interrogate him to make sure he isn’t lying. He wants to trust him. 

All of this results in him staring at Wilson, completely still, frozen with indecision and disbelief and awful, awful hope. 

“That… does sound like a problem,” House admits with as much levity as he can. He has to speak quietly, with Wilson so close. “You have my deepest sympathies.”

He always forgets that Wilson is a little shorter than him. Just the smallest amount, but it’s obvious now with their faces inching closer. And House still can’t move. Wilson’s gaze flitting over his face, to his shoulders. He’s breathing through his mouth- short, shallow breaths that are almost imperceptible, but House can hear them. 

This can’t be real. This must be a hallucination-

And then he feels Wilson’s hand on his arm. They both look down to watch it happen- House finally moving from his petrified state- and their gazes follow the movement of the hand running up his arm, resting on his bicep. House feels it. This is real. This isn’t Wilson drunkenly making a move. It’s not even House coming onto Wilson and embarrassing himself. This is Wilson, stepping closer to him even after everything he’s done, acknowledging it all without pretence, and without- for once in his life- overthinking it. 

His hand stops on his arm and stays there. 

“This-” Wilson huffs. Swallows. “This is insane.”

House doesn’t know how to respond to that, because- yeah, it is. But it also isn’t. He thinks Wilson knows that already. He lifts his hand to Wilson’s face; his thumb finds his chin, tilting his face just the smallest amount, knuckles stroking along his jaw. And Wilson’s eyes fall shut; a silent sigh. How long have they both needed this? 

He doesn’t look away. House can’t look away as Wilson leans- he can’t believe it just yet, can’t trust himself enough to know that this is really happening and not just the best fantasy he’s had so far. And so he watches, unmoving, eyes half-closed. 

It’s only when he feels breath against his skin, nose brushing his cheek that he gives in, eyes fluttering shut.

Their lips don’t touch, not at first. It’s that lingering, hesitating, delayed-gratification kind of kiss that makes House think he’s going to lose his mind. He still doesn’t move. 

Even when Wilson closes the gap and kisses him, he barely kisses back at first. A full-body freeze, fight-or-flight. 

And then he finally moves- the hand below Wilson’s chin coming to rest below his ear, fingers in his hair- kissing back. Tongue swiping along his bottom lip. 

And Wilson makes this noise. A kind of choked moan that could be a hiccup. It breaks their kiss, lips hovering again, and then Wilson kisses him firmly, hand sliding up to House’s neck, his hair, kissing his mouth open, fingers trailing down his neck to the collar of his t-shirt, hands on his arms again, unable to make up their mind- tongues and open mouthed kisses- so much dirtier than he imagined Wilson capable of, which seems obtuse in retrospect- just as attentive as he imagined- hands sliding down to his hips, under the material of his t-shirt-

House manages to slam a hand against the wall before he falls over. 

Wilson breaks away just the smallest amount, and House- humiliatingly- finds himself dipping forward to follow him, to find his lips again. 

“I make your knees weak,” Wilson mutters. 

A delicious mixture of irritation and arousal. “Don’t act so smug- I don’t have my cane.”

He feels Wilson’s smile on his lips and he hears a hum of defiance, just before House dives in to kiss him again. Wilson’s hands sliding up his stomach, leaving shivering heat in their wake- sliding his t-shirt up, and House rips it off, patience entirely gone now. If he’s going to be this smug, then-

House finds the hem of Wilson’s sweatshirt, finds the skin at the small of his back and pulls him in close, hand flat and running up his spine, another hand on his hip, biting at Wilson’s bottom lip one second, the next tracing his lips softly over his jaw line, and he triumphs in the hungry- and annoyed- grumble that Wilson makes, raising his arms to get his shirt off. 

“Of course you’d turn this into a competition,” Wilson argues in between kisses- hands on his hips and fumbling for the buckle of his belt- “of course you’d make this vindictive-”

“You love it-”

Wilson grumbles again, kissing messily and sucking his bottom lip and pushing him towards the bed without breaking away, hands firmly on his arms and waist and back as House backs blindly against the edge of the mattress- multitasking as best he can by undoing the button of Wilson’s jeans without falling back onto the bed and without losing his lips against his- 

As soon as he manages to get the trousers off, Wilson lets him fall onto the bed- that light in his eyes that he gets when they’re arguing and pretending they’re not enjoying it. 

He must look surprised. He is.

“What?” Wilson says, hovering over him, “you never realised that I’ve always been the one in charge in this relationship?”

House tries to complain, but he’s being kissed instead. He allows it for a while, until he pulls away and gasps a breath- “You are _so_ not the one who wears the pants-”

“Paha!” He’s being kissed against the bed, body heavy against his, hands gripping Wilson’s back- “ignoring the obvious sexism in that comment-” he bites House’s lip and grinds against him- House chokes- “you seem to have forgotten that I’m the one who buys you lunch every day-”

“I _make_ you buy me lunch-”

“-who makes you apologise to people when you’ve been an asshole-”

“-I do that out of the kindness of my own heart-”

“-and you’re the one who follows me around all day-”

“I-” 

House kisses him, because he’s not going to deign a response to that. 

He knew he’d be good in bed. He didn’t think it would be like this though. He thought he’d be overbearingly caring, but that’s not what’s happening at all- it’s attentive without the gentleness, which suits them just right, he supposes- it’s teeth and nails as well as lips and finger-tips. It’s hands everywhere and panting into the other’s mouths, grinding against each other because they’re too impatient for anything else. The hands that House had gripping Wilson’s hips are pulled away and pinned to the bed, and House smirks, wrestles a little against his grips for the hell of it. 

And then his phone rings. 

House has no intention of stopping. Wilson pulls away a little, looks down with pink cheeks and dark, dark eyes. 

“You should answer that,” Wilson says. 

“I wouldn’t answer that phone if you paid me a years’ supply in Vicodin-”

He dives up for a kiss. Wilson pulls away. House growls. 

“Could be important.”

“It’s a new case, it’s not important,” House mutters, diving up again and missing Wilson’s lips. 

He looks down at him properly with lips parted and hair hanging in front of his face. Dishevelled and unbelievably hot. Enough that it makes House exhale and blink, a smirk tugging at his lips. “ _Gah._ ” 

“New case, still could be someone dying. Answer the phone, House.”

Wilson peers down at him, but he doesn’t move to sit up. House fumbles for the phone, eyes on his lips. 

He kisses along House’s jaw as he flips his phone open. 

“Hello, this is Doctor Gregory House with a sexy man between his legs, to whom am I speaking?”

There’s no pause on the other end. Typical, that they wouldn’t believe him. Wilson doesn’t stop, moving down to his neck and collar bone.

“ _New patient’s got a twitch_ ,” Foreman says. 

Wilson moves down his body, kissing his chest. 

“That’s nice,” House says distantly.

“… _No, it’s not._ ”

That was probably Foreman again, he isn’t sure, because House is more focused on Wilson licking down his stomach. Holy shit. 

“Yup, sounds terrible- test for-” Wilson’s hands reach the waistband of his underwear. House winces, fingers instinctively reaching for Wilson’s hair, carding through it. “-Test for lime disease and Parkinsons-”

“There isn’t a rash-”

Wilson shows absolutely no signs of stopping. He’s laying ticklish kisses just above the waistband- and then stripping away his underwear, and-

He has to move the phone away from his face. He draws the line at making sex noises down the phone to his fellows. Wilson, apparently, doesn’t. After recovering as much as he’ll ever be able to with Wilson nuzzling his erection-

“I’m going now,” he sings down the phone.

“ _But_ -”

“Bye-bye now, goodbye-”

He ends the call, throws his phone across the room. Looks down runs his hand through Wilson’s hair and-

“Hahhhhhhh-” he says, dropping his head back again. Of course Wilson is amazing at doing things with his tongue. Those lips were made for blow jobs. “You evil bastard-”

Wilson stops for just a moment, looking up at him. “You’re gonna pay for saying I’m no better than a vibrator.”

House grins, loses any mental capacity for comebacks. And he does pay for it- two times that evening. But it’s alright, because Wilson pays for it, too. 

***

Wilson wakes up in the night. He doesn’t know what time it is; these hotel rooms are so dark. All he can see is the little red light of the TV screen, on standby. Jet-lag is the worst- he’s going to be lying here for hours, staring at nothing and overthinking about everything. As if he hasn’t been struggling with insomnia recently anyway. 

But then there’s the sound of House beside him. Slow, even breathing. His body heat, close-by. Suddenly, he feels immensely comforted. 

So, this is the feeling he’s been outrunning. He’s been an idiot. 

He closes his eyes again and just listens. He falls asleep. 

***

Wilson wakes up again and the room is no lighter. He must only have been asleep for a short while. What’s woken up him up this time isn’t jet-lag- it’s an arm around his waist and a warm body pressed up behind him. Even warmer breath against the nape of his neck. 

He wiggles into a more comfortable position. And by ‘more comfortable position’, he’s looking for one that might wake House up by pushing his ass up against him. 

It seems to work. House draws in a long, luxurious breath behind him, his chest rising against Wilson’s shoulder blades, and the hand over his waist pulls him closer, fingers winding under Wilson’s t-shirt. And he’ll never get used to his hands on him like that- at least, he can’t imagine a future where he’d be bored of it. It makes his body languid and his chest fluttery, it gives him vertigo in this almost pitch-black room. His breaths suddenly heavy and open-mouthed. Unbelievably aroused- both of them, he can feel House’s hardon- even though all they’re doing is spooning. 

He thought maybe House was asleep still, or at least half-asleep. But then Wilson feels a thoughtless, messy kiss on the nape of his neck, breaths parting his hair and tickling his skin. And House’s hand moves down his stomach and wraps around him-

“House…”

The kisses move around his neck, House licking and biting at his earlobe, grazing his shoulders with lips. And Wilson hears himself making quiet noises that don’t quite qualify as moans or sighs, rather something in between that sounds a lot more fragile in the dark. One hand hanging onto the edge of the mattress, the other one blindly searching for House, something for him to hold. House, breathing beside his ear. 

“H- hah- _House_ -”

He pants against the pillow. Totally blown away by how gentle it is. And when he topples over the edge, gasping and clutching in the dark for House, he finds him there. Undeniably. 

***

The morning is brighter than yesterday’s. The fog must already be starting to clear. 

House blinks up at the ceiling. A shaft of light cutting across it. Wincing, he rolls to find his watch- seven thirty in the morning. Ungodly. 

Then he rolls to his other side, and sees Wilson lying on his front, face pressed unflatteringly against the pillow so his cheek is squashed. House has stolen all the duvet- he’s always pretended that he does it accidentally in his sleep- so Wilson is lying there, bare-ass and completely dead to the world, snoring lightly. It’s too funny not to take a picture. So he does. His phone camera isn’t exactly brilliant, but it’s good enough to occasionally take an embarrassing picture of his best friend-slash-boyfriend. 

Wilson begins to shift, frowning groggily. House innocently puts his phone on the bedside table and folds his hands across his chest, staring at the ceiling. 

“You look guilty,” Wilson mumbles against the pillow.

House scoffs. “I have never done _anything_ wrong in my entire life.”

His frown deepens, eyes still closed. “Ugh. I’m cold. You hog the covers.”

“Big baby.” He throws the covers over him. 

And that apparently makes Wilson sit up on his elbows and wince at House. His hair askew and lips pouted sleepily. “Did you just take _pity_ on me?”

“What? Now we’re…” House trails off. “… _Special friends_ , you’re taking count of all the times I treat you good? Give you that good lovin’?”

“I’ve been keeping count since the beginning,” Wilson snorts, stretching like a cat. “I have a little book in my desk decorated with pink glitter glue and heart stickers. _All The Times House Was Nice To Me_.”

House smirks. “God, I wish you weren’t joking.”

“It would make excellent bribe material, I agree. Unfortunately for you I’m not dumb enough for that. Also, I haven’t kept a diary since I was fourteen.”

For a moment, they lie beside each other in quiet. There’s the sound of people in the corridor heading down to breakfast, and House suddenly realises how hungry he is. 

“I don’t suppose they do room service,” Wilson mumbles, reading his mind. 

“All hotels do room service if you harass them enough.”

Wilson sighs, slowly. Good to know that he can still make him weary and resigned. “Let’s get up and head down. The next flight back home’s at four pm. There might even be time to head back into the city and do something if you felt like it. We haven’t exactly seen the sights.”

House grimaces. “No thanks. I’m not paying to stand in a glass pod with young couples and incompetent parents with screaming children just to see a view of London. You can get that on a plane, you know. Which is what we're going to be doing later, remember.”

“Ah,” Wilson sighs, looking at him dreamily. “I always knew you were a romantic at heart.”

“There’s nothing romantic about huge crowds and walking for hours to look at a plastic infested river from various different angles.”

“Please, tell me more. Your sweet words set my heart racing.”

House rolls his head to look at him. “You really wanna go be a socks-and-sandals tourist?”

Wilson shrugs. “I haven’t been to London in forever. I liked it last time I went. It’d be fun to see it with you. Your preview was enticing. I’ve always wanted to see a European city with a twisted misanthrope as my guide, it’s been my life-long dream.” 

He pauses, trying to figure out just how much Wilson is joking. When he concludes that Wilson actually _does_ want to leave the comfort of their bed: “I’ve made a mistake. Why did I confess my undying love for you, again? Remind me.”

“I don’t know. Really. It’s totally humiliating.” 

Wilson leans in and kisses him. House feels his frown melt a little. 

Then, Wilson pulls away. “You _love_ me,” he taunts. 

“Shut up. Everyone does.”

That sounded meaner in his own head. The only way to stop Wilson from rubbing it in further is my kissing the words out of his mouth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FLUFF. SO MUCH FLUFF. SO SO SO MUCH FLUFF YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

They spend too long showering, getting dressed, getting undressed again, and showering again for it to be worth going all the way into the city. A part of Wilson feels a little sad about that, but most of him is just delighted at having the opportunity to lie around in bed with House, watching Masterchef UK reruns under the duvet and passing comments on the contestants’ terrible attempts at choux-pastry. 

When they leave the room with their bags, it feels a little strange. The only difference compared to yesterday morning when they left for the airport is that there isn’t that strange tension between them today. More than that, something else has shifted, something that’s been hanging over them for years, like a net of balloons dropping at prom. 

The weather is much better today, blue cold skies with criss-crosses of jet engine fumes. Their flight isn’t for over an hour, and they’re already through security. House is slouched in the plastic seat of the waiting area, head tilted back and eyes closed, wincing slightly. 

“Why are we here.” 

Wilson puts down his book. (He’s never going to finish this fucking book.) “Because we… can’t _walk_ across the Atlantic Ocean? Unless it’s not just a god complex and you really _are_ a god.”

“Our flight is in an hour and a half. And instead of me displaying the various ways I could restrain you with your tie, you have brought us here.”

Wilson throws up his hands in defence. “Ok, I- I thought it would be busier than it actually is. Yesterday was a nightmare, and-”

House’s wince worsens. 

“What?” Wilson demands.

“There’s a kid out there wearing squeaky shoes,” he grumbles. And Wilson hadn’t noticed until now, but he’s right. House sighs. “What kind of person in their right mind puts their child in shoes that _intentionally_ squeak?”

“A parent who- doesn’t want to lose their child in an airport, perhaps?”

“They belong in the seventh circle of hell.”

“The shoes, or the parents? Or the child?”

“All of them.”

Wilson nods his head from side to side, trying to come up with options. “There’s a pub over there. We could go get a drink while we wait.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I’m in an airport.”

“Fine! I’ll make it up to you. When we get home.”

At that, House cracks an eye open and views Wilson hopefully. “How?”

He sighs. “However you like.”

House leers.

“But _only_ if you promise that we can come back to London, you and I. Make a real trip out of it.”

House’s face turns into a frown, both eyes open and looking at Wilson seriously, searchingly. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ , we never got to really see any of it together, apart from the back ally of a pub that I puked in. So, let’s come back every couple of years, conference or not.”

He narrows his eyes at Wilson, looking up from his slouched position. The kid’s shoes squeak cheerfully in the background, but he looks like he’s forgotten them for the time-being. “You’re talking about an anniversary trip.”

Wilson opens his mouth, closes it again and shrugs helplessly. “Yes, you caught me. My dastardly plan to make something romantic of this.”

“Blackmail.”

He raises his eyebrows at him. “What, like neither of us have blackmailed each other before?”

For a moment, House simply looks at him, thinking deeply; an expression that says he’s unpicking both his and Wilson’s emotions and analysing them. And then, face relaxing out of a frown, he nods minutely and looks away. “Yeah. OK.”

Wilson blinks. “Wow. I’m being honest, I didn’t think that would work.”

There’s a pause where Wilson feels as if there’s something else he should say, but he doesn’t know what. He looks back down at House, who’s gazing at him. That’s a gaze, a real _gaze_. And now Wilson is really kicking himself, because he’s seen that look before- blue eyes peering through the cracks in the shutters of his office, staring at him whilst he talks to a girlfriend or flirts with a nurse. A gaze across the room at a hospital function. Now, in the middle of Gatwick airport. 

House breaks the contact, turning away with his head tilted down and eyes peering out from under a deep frown. 

And then, quite unexpectedly, he shouts:

“Would the owner of the small human wearing the irritating shoes please come and collect them and remove them from my vicinity, immediately.”

The urge to sigh and hide his face is strong. People look, then turn away as if nothing happened. Wilson does notice, however, that a couple of them are laughing. 

He stands up and leans down to talk quietly to House. “Thank you, you have made your point- let’s take a walk.” 

“Goodie,” House responds, grabbing his cane. “Nothing I like more than a stroll around the beautiful mountains of duty-free vodka.”

House does, at least, follow him. They amble at a leisurely pace towards nowhere. Wilson doesn’t exactly have anywhere in mind, he just sort of hoped that if he could get House away from the Curse of the Squeaky Shoes, he might be marginally more mellow. 

“Did you hear back from your team about the new patient?”

House casts a suspicious, peripheral glance at him as they make their way together through the airport crowd, speaker system announcing a flight to Athens that’s boarding. Perhaps he thinks Wilson has some ulterior motive, other than to ease the guilt he feels for dragging them here so early. Eventually, House’s desire to talk about himself wins over the suspicion. “Twitch is a myoclonic jerk.”

“Without a fever, that points to neurological. Could be a tumour.”

“And the autoimmune expert says it could be autoimmune,” House says with a small eye-roll. 

“Scan the brain.”

“That’s- genius. I’m so lucky I have you here, because I would _never_ have thought to get a brain scan for a patient who’s twitching all over.”

Wilson finds himself mindlessly going for the sunglasses shop, grabbing the nearest pair that look alright. They’re similar to a style he already owns, Ray-Bans, but he tries them on anyway. “So I’m assuming you’re waiting for the results, or you-”

House snorts. “Nice. Very ‘second rate Top-Gun porno’.”

“Wonderful.” Wilson removes the glasses immediately, and House takes them from him, putting them on his own face. He pulls a one-side-of-the-mouth, Elvis Presley smirk. “God, they actually _suit_ you. How is that fair?”

“I ride a motorcycle and take drugs,” House says simply. “You iron your socks.”

“Yes, that explains everything. If the scans come back negative for cancer, it could still be Parkinson’s. Or- hey, it could be encephalitis.”

“Lucky we came all the way over here for an encephalitis conference, huh,” House says dully, pulling off the sunglasses and picking out a circular, John-Lennon-esque pair. “It isn’t encephalitis. And there’s no point guessing what it _could_ be before the results come through.”

House angles the arms of the glasses to put them on Wilson’s face. Wilson screws his eyes shut, fully expecting House to jab him in the face with them, but he doesn’t. When he opens them again, House is looking him up and down with a small smile. “You don’t suit glasses.”

Wilson turns and looks at his reflection. “Oh, God, _no._ ” He peels them off, vaguely aware of House laughing silently beside him, and looks at the price tag. “They also cost eight hundred pounds.”

“You know, I’m a doctor,” House leers, “I have lots of money, sweetie, I could buy them for you-”

“Oh, as _if_ you’re _my_ sugar-daddy,” Wilson scoffs, loud enough that some people turn and look as he’s putting the sunglasses back. “I’m the dipshit who lends you several thousands of dollars for stupid things like motorbikes.” 

“Lend being the operative word.”

“And have you ever paid any of it back? No,” he answers before House can. 

“I did! I paid you back for the motorbike!”

“And all the other cheques I wrote to you?”

He leaves the sunglasses shop, aiming for somewhere covered in union jacks. Just looking at the shop sign is giving him a headache. House catches up.

“ _Ha-ha_ ,” House mocks. “You love me. You want to do nice things for me even if it _is_ a stupid idea.” 

Wilson tries to sound mocking. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

They step inside the hellish confines of the British souvenir shop, various Harry Potter and Queen of England bits and pieces that are completely worthless but kind of hilarious. House picks up a Westminster snow globe and shakes it, grimacing. 

“That’s hideous,” Wilson says, pointing out the obvious. 

“This is a date.”

Wilson tries to translate as he aims for the rows of chocolate and fudge. It’s obvious what House’s words mean, the _tone_ , however- “It’s… us trying to kill some time. And it’s surprisingly fun. Would you call that a date?”

“It’s a date. In an airport.”

“I mean, aside from the love confessions- this isn’t so different to what we might have done if we were just hanging out before all this happened,” he says, waving an arm between them. “So, I suppose by that logic, we’ve been dating for years.”

Wilson turns his attention back to the rows of chocolate. He’s thinking he might buy something for Cuddy, considering that she’s probably gonna murder them when they get back and she finds out how poorly they behaved. He picks out a box of fudge with a picture of the London Eye on the front, and House disappears to go look at booze. Wilson feels himself drawn to the ridiculous little teddy bears wearing union jack t-shirts and picks one up, squishing it. It fits in his hand. 

“You’re not actually gonna buy that, are you?”

House is holding a bottle of Scottish whisky, looking at the teddy bear with disdain. Wilson looks at it- button nose and soft fur. 

“I dunno,” he mutters, surprising himself. “It’s tacky, and therefore funny. And kinda cute.”

There’s a pause. House extends his hand for the bear. “Gimme.”

Wilson stares at him, holding the bear to his chest protectively- which is weird, he realises. “Why? Do _you_ want it?” he asks incredulously.

Now, House stares. “What the hell would I do with a stuffed bear wearing imperialist propaganda?”

He looks back down at the bear. “I sorta like the union jack t-shirt.”

“Which is why I am _trying_ to buy it for you.”

“I was gonna buy it for you,” Wilson retorts. Blinking. “I think.”

A very strange pause stretches between them. They watch each other cautiously. 

“We don’t know how to date each other, do we,” Wilson says.

House shakes his head a little. “Apparently not.”

Another strange pause, looking at the stuffed bear which has caused so much trouble. 

Wilson gestures with the bear. “I’m gonna buy this. You buy whisky. We will… discuss this at a later date.”

With a nod, House leaves it there. They pay up, go get a pint before getting their flight. They fall asleep for the majority of the journey, having had almost none over the past couple of days. They head straight back to House’s. Wilson reminds him that he dragged them to the airport two hours early and asks if he can make it up to him. For the whole night. 

***

“Morning, boys.”

They’re barely through the front entrance when Cuddy finds them, stepping out of her office with perfect timing. Wilson and House slow, surveying her characteristic march towards them. 

“Did she just- wait at her office doors for us the entire morning?” Wilson poses, a little alarmed. He’s even more alarmed when he sees the speed with which she’s bustling. That’s an even bustlier bustle than usual, white coat flying and eyes wide. She stops in front of them, arms folded and heel tapping. 

“You were _thrown out_ of the conference?”

“Only the last lecture,” Wilson corrects. “We learned a lot until then.”

She glares at him. “You! You were supposed to stop this sort of thing from happening. Do you know how much it costs to fund these trips?”

House sighs with a saccharine smile, leaning on his cane. “It’s been so long, and yet… you’re just as bureaucratic as I remember. _I’ve missed you_.”

“It’s-” Wilson shrugs uselessly, aiming for the lifts. “It’s hard to keep him on the leash.”

“If you know what I mean,” House winks.

“You realise this is the last time I send you both on a conference trip together,” Cuddy threatens. Then, with a little more humour- “I thought I could at least trust you, Wilson.”

“Really, a terrible mistake,” he calls over his shoulder.

The sound of Cuddy’s office doors closing. House leans a little towards Wilson and mutters: “How d’you think she’d react if she knew we were boning for pretty much the entire trip?”

The two of them make their journey towards the elevator, smiles growing on both of their faces. 

***

First day back, and it’s been a pretty shitty one.

First of all, there’s the jet-lag. Wilson’s dragged himself into work on two hours of sleep and aching all over (no thanks to the House) and he’s struggling to keep his body moving through the grogginess. Then, there was the discovery that one of his patients isn’t doing well, and another old patient has had a reoccurrence. And on top of that, he has extra clinic duty shifts to make up for since he’s been gone, on top of all the hours he’s been given as punishment for getting thrown out of the conference. 

Wilson steps out of exam room one, having completed yet another pointless consultation, throwing a tongue depressor into the trash. This feels like the opposite of when House drugged him with speed. The only thing that’s keeping his mood marginally above awful is remembering every so often that he’s sort of dating the bastard. 

He drags himself to the nurse’s desk and sighs, taking the file that one of the nurses- Sam- passes over to him. And he must be looking really crappy, because she double takes. 

“You look different today,” she says. 

Wilson opens the file on the desk. “In… what way? If you’re trying to politely say I look terrible, then you’re right, it’s because I do feel terrible. I’m jet-lagged.”

Sam tilts her head. She has a pretty face, red hair tied up into a tight ponytail. “I wasn’t going to say you look bad. I genuinely meant that you just look different. You actually look _less_ tired.”

“Really?” he asks, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. “I suppose I have been…”

He hasn’t been sleeping better at all, but he does feel like something’s been lifted off his chest. The other nurses whiz about the desk, talking to patients and marching about in a way that’s always been a bit threatening, particularly for junior doctors. The head nurse, Jean, stands behind Sam’s desk chair and measures Wilson, looking up and down. He stands up straight, self-consciously. 

“What is this?” he laughs nervously, holding up his hands. 

“He’s got a new girlfriend,” Jean nods. 

Wilson scoffs, shakes his head as he turns his attention to the folder. He’s generally always had a good rapport with the nurses in the hospital, although there was a while there that they all resented him for trying to sleep with them all. Which is reasonable, and seemed pretty reasonable at the time.

“I have not got a new girlfriend.” Well, it is the truth. 

“You’ve come back to work with a pile of crap on your desk,” Sam replies, “and yet you’re glowing.”

“ _Glowing_ -?”

“And he’s wearing that pretty coloured shirt.”

Wilson flounders, and Jean shrugs, going off to do her job. Sam, however- she leans across the desk towards him, one brow cocked. 

“You’ve really not got a new girlfriend?”

“No,” he exhales, shaking his head still, “I really, honestly haven’t.”

She doesn’t lean away. Wilson starts to feel a bit uncomfortable, now, picking up the sheets in the folder, trying to gather it up so he can make his escape. 

“You do look nice today,” she smiles.

He’s got an answer all lined up. He’s going to let her down gently-

“Yeah- that’s what he said to me last night before he blew me.”

Wilson stares at a spot on the opposite wall. Composes himself, before he turns to House, who’s magically appeared at his side, smiling affably at Sam- who curls her lip and winces back, sitting down behind the computer again. 

House looks at him. Eyebrows raised, perfectly innocent. “I’m so sorry, was I interru-?”

“You. With me, now.”

“Oof. I love it when you’re firm with me.”

Wilson grinds his teeth, guiding House by the arm towards the staircase- which he pettily plans to use to run away from House and hide in his office.

“Is this because I made a gay joke?” House starts. “Because _you_ said you didn’t want to make a big deal of hiding it from everyone. Your words last night were ‘everyone will find out soon even if we do try to hide it’-”

“And I’m pretty sure what I didn’t say was ‘let’s make blow-job jokes whenever we get jealous.’ Good _God_ , House,” he growls, under his breath as they walk. “I was just having a conversation with the woman.”

“Yeah, I have all my conversations showing my sizeable cleavage.” 

“I had it covered!” he argues. “She’s a nice girl! I was gonna tell her _nicely_ that I’m not available! Your territorial thing is _not_ endearing.”

He scoffs. “I’m not being territorial-”

“You may as well have peed all over my desk! You would have asserted your dominance just as subtly!”

“Right,” House nods thoughtfully. “Pee over desk. I’ll remember that trick next time.”

He starts up the stairs, knowing full well that House won’t be bothered to follow. If this is going to be a problem, House turning up whenever Wilson wants to talk to another human being- as if he doesn’t have the self-control to turn someone down? He knows the man has trust issues, but- _God_ , he’s furious. He’s also angry that he sort of _does_ find House’s jealousy endearing. 

“I can’t help being impossibly alluring,” Wilson jokes as he starts up the stairs, earning an eyeroll from House, “I _can_ help not being a jerk about it, so I’m not going to be. Come find me when you’ve stopped being an ass.”

And that leaves House looking surprisingly remorseful. 

***

House sits at his desk. He bumps his chin repeatedly over the handle of his cane, eyes staring into the distance, unblinking. 

London happened and now they’re here. It feels weird. A little like ‘they’ could only work in another continent. It’s possible that he’s been scared of the illusion shattering the moment they come home, so it’s also _just_ possible that he overreacted when seeing one of the pretty nurses chatting up Wilson. 

No. No way- he didn’t overreact. Wilson’s a wanderer, and the nurse was pretty. 

Ugh- he has that horrible, nauseous feeling that he gets sometimes in his stomach. It might be guilt, or it might be the taco he had for lunch, he isn’t sure. Either way, he hates it, and he takes it out on his chin as he bumps it against his cane. 

In times like this, he might produce some gesture. Stacy used to like the odd surprise, although he basically never made them: that’s what made those few shows of love so surprising. He got Cameron that corsage for the world’s most awkward date. He knows how to do gestures, and he’s done them because the woman in question has always had a soft spot for something corny- and, although he’d never admit it, he’s got a soft spot for it too. Wilson, though? If he offered an apologetic gesture of love, he’d never hear the end of it. They’ll be two old men on their porch, smoking cigars, and Wilson will be reminding him of ‘that time when we started dating and you did that corny thing’, and House will be begging for him to ‘shut up about it, I promise I’ll never do anything nice again’. 

House’s gaze fixes on his guitar and the speaker system. On the other hand, if Wilson actually appreciates it- he has a sneaking suspicion he will- then he’ll probably be rewarded in pancakes and sex. 

Decision made, House spins his chair towards his laptop and opens up iTunes. He has a few blank CDs lying around in his desk drawer, from when he used to burn playlists for his car journeys into work. It doesn’t take long for him to decide what he’s going to put on this one. 

There’s a brief search for a spare marker pen, and then he’s writing on the plastic CD case: _CHEESY SHIT FOR A CORNY BASTARD_. 

His office door opens, and his team come marching in, lab coats trailing. He swipes the CD case under today’s newspaper, and begins throwing and catching the board pen. 

“Let me guess,” he poses, “lab tests came back negative.”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” Chase asks, with a small frown.

“Magic. Also it’s a thirty-three percent chance I’d guess right.”

“If it’s not Parkinson’s, if it’s not lime disease, if it’s not legionnaires, it has to be some airborne bacteria, or a spore that’s causing the pneumonia. Maybe from a foreign country that he’s ‘never been to before’,” Foreman says pointedly, looking slowly over at Cameron.

She glares back. “Right, so I’m naïve to think that some people, just a few, _don’t_ lie to their wives.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, the rest of them in sync: “Yeah.”

House throws and catches the pen whilst Cameron fumes. “Our patient is a big, fat liar like everyone else,” he says. “Just because he’s a… What’s our patient do again?”

Chase answers: “Charity worker. He’s probably been all over.”

“Ask him where he’s been again without the wife in the room. Tell him-”

“Is that a teddy bear?” 

House stares at Foreman. Then he turns in his spinning chair, surveying the union jack bear on his bookshelf behind him. He looks at Foreman. “Sure looks like it. I keep a camera in it so I can spy on you all when I’m out.”

“You,” Chase points at him. “You, have a teddy bear in your office.”

“No, really. It’s linked directly to my laptop.” 

That’s actually not a bad idea.

“You got that in London?” Cameron asks, an incredulous lift in her voice. 

“Wilson got it, gave it to me.” He enjoys the looks on their faces. “Go tell the patient-”

“You’re not kidding.” Foreman eyes him. “That really is a present from Wilson. A… stuffed teddy bear.”

“In _House’s_ office,” Chase adds. 

“Yes, we covered that,” House nods. There’s a pause. House takes a big, pointed breath for his next point: “ _Tell the patient-_ ”

“You’re dating Wilson.”

“Well don’t tell the patient _that_ , Foreman. He doesn’t need to know.”

Foreman stares. “You’re bisexual.”

“You’re black,” House replies immediately. “Chase, you’re turn! We’re playing ‘Stupid Comments’.”

“Is this for real?” Cameron asks, painfully hopeful.

“None of your business.”

“Well, you’re not exactly hiding it from us!” she exclaims. 

“I shouldn’t have to. You and Chase certainly don’t hide the fact that you’re screwing from us.”

Chase and Cameron both glare. 

Foreman sighs, resigned. “Congratulations.”

House tuts. “We’re dating. We’re not getting _married_.”

The three of them are looking horribly pleased with themselves. And, on top of that, pleased for him. House closes his eyes, wincing through his words. “Go tell the patient he’ll die if he doesn’t tell us the truth about exactly where he’s been. Go. Get.”

House has trained them well enough that they don’t argue back, and they don’t press the subject further- that of the diagnosis or his love-life. He does notice, however, the way they immediately start smirking and talking to each other the second they leave his office. 

He’s so proud. 

***

About three hours later, House is sticking an MRI scan up on the display, his team packing up to go home next door. They’ve been arguing with each other for about twenty minutes about House’s diagnosis. There is _something_ wrong with this scan, he just can’t put his finger on what. _They_ think he’s certifiably insane and refuse to pander to his obsessive behaviour.

He takes it back. He isn’t proud of them. His team can suck it.

House leans against the edge of his desk and stares at the scans. At first he thought maybe the parietal lobe was a bit swollen, but it’s fine. There’s something small, barely noticeable in this scan, and it’s screaming at him to notice it. 

The door bursts open. “You made me a CD? 

House continues to stare at the scan. “Come here. Does the occipital lobe look abnormal to you?”

Wilson steps into the room, stands beside where House is leaning. Hands on his hips and shoulders moving as he sighs. “No. Looks fine to me.” Then, “There’s something off about this scan, though.”

“ _Thank_ you,” House exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m firing my team.”

“If they told you you’re insane, then they’re doing their jobs right. You burned me a CD of cheesy music.”

Wilson turns on the spot, hands still on hips, expression evaluative. House peers up at him cautiously. 

“You were right. I was a jealous ass. I felt bad.” He pauses. “You don’t have to listen to it.”

“To hell with that, I’ve listened to it twice already,” Wilson retorts. 

“At work?”

“Yeah. I was having a crappy day and that made it marginally better,” Wilson defends himself, like he’s on trial. “I liked it.”

They both view each other, realising suddenly that this isn’t an argument. 

“Thank you,” Wilson concedes, softening. 

House scratches his head awkwardly. “No problem. I didn’t know if you’d like it all-”

“I didn’t think you’d like some of the songs on that CD,” Wilson admits. “There’s some real cheese on there. ‘50s Doo Wop kind of cheese. That’s next level.”

House quirks his eyebrows. “A good tune’s a good tune.”

Wilson smiles, looks at the floor. He steps towards House, walking around where his legs are outstretched, a foot on either side. A hand goes to his arm, and House loosens a little, head hanging. 

“There’s nothing that would make me want to risk my relationship with you- friendship or otherwise,” Wilson says quietly. “Nurses included. I know my record hasn’t been great in the past, but I’m not looking anywhere else.”

“So, buy me dinner,” House jokes. “Wine me and dine me, _prove_ to me that this is more than just sex.”

For a second, Wilson says nothing. Then, “Yeah. OK.”

“What?”

“Let’s go to that new grill house. The fancy one, just out of town.”

House thinks about it for all of half a millisecond, pretends that he thinks about it for longer. “OK. Buy me dinner.”

***

That is how Wilson finds himself sitting by himself at a two-person table in a very nice steak restaurant. Two wine glasses, two menus, two placemats and one of him looking like an idiot. 

He sighs through his nose, takes out his phone to check whether House called or left a message about being late. It’s not as if he doesn’t know what the life of a doctor is like- late nights and the occasional missed commitment are expected. But he thought maybe he’d call ahead to let him know. Wilson consoles himself with the fact that it’s only been fifteen minutes- House may just be running late. Or, if he can’t make it, he might still call. That doesn’t change the fact that Wilson is left sitting by himself in the middle of a posh restaurant- the kind of place that has a black board for its wine menu, dark furniture and glass walls- folding his napkin as best he can into the shape of a chicken. 

This won’t be the first time he’s been stood up by House. But he supposes, as he twists the napkin to make a chicken wing, he hoped that things might have changed. 

Twenty-five minutes. Wilson has waited twenty-five minutes and downed a glass of Chardonnay before House walks through the door. He sees his mouth move, probably explaining to the waitress that he’s meeting someone, but the quiet murmur of polite conversation and low-volume jazz muffles his voice. And then House’s eyes peer from behind his low brow, searching for Wilson- finding him, and immediately looking away. 

The waitress takes his coat. The gesture seems to irritate him, but he lets her, and Wilson sees that he’s actually dressed up a little for the occasion. He’s wearing a shirt that’s been _ironed_. And there isn’t a t-shirt underneath. 

Wilson puts down his menu as House sits down opposite him. 

“How long’ve you been waiting?” he asks, because apologising isn’t an option.

“Oh, you know. Twenty-five minutes or so. Because I made the reservation for twenty-five minutes ago.”

House nods to himself. “That’s not so bad,” he says, his sheepish expression betraying his words. 

“A call would’ve been nice.” 

Wilson knows it’s pathetic, but he hates being alone. And he hates being _left_ alone even more. House doesn’t look him in the eye, hanging his cane off the edge of the table and opening the menu with a wide-eyed frown- a look that tends to indicate that he’s embarrassed and a little bit guilty but refuses to admit it. It’s as he’s opening the menu stiffly that Wilson notices the little shaving cuts on his jaw.

“Have you-” Wilson hesitates, giving House a once over. “Have you _combed your hair?_ And shaved?”

“It’s a date,” he argues quietly.

Wilson blinks. The last time he saw him looking like this was when he was preparing for that incredibly awkward date with Cameron. House doesn’t shave, not even for formal events. “Well. You know, I’m not asking you suddenly change personality, just because this is a date.”

“I _asked_ you on a date-”

“In a very roundabout way.”

House huffs. “I wanted to make an effort.”

“I-” Wilson stops short, mouth clamping shut. He puts down his menu. “I… don’t know who’s under that House-mask, but I promise, if you return him safely I’ll meet all your demands.”

At that, House finally looks at him. His head tilted downwards so much that it probably hurts his eyes to look up at him. A small smile teases the corner of his mouth. 

“So,” Wilson begins. “What do you do for a living, Greg? I’m an oncologist.”

His mouth is tugged into a slightly wider smile. “Please. Call me House. Only my mother calls me Greg. What’s an oncologist? Sounds boring. As for myself, I’m a professional drug addict.”

Delighted that House is playing along, Wilson continues, “Tell me more, that sounds- truly, fascinating. Have you ever thought about branching out into administering drugs to other people, or do you prefer to work solo?”

“Funny you should say that, I’m a doctor who solves lots of very difficult cases that no one else is smart enough to figure out, so I do get to do some light drug-dealing in the form of antibiotics and other cool stuff that oncologists don’t do. Sorry,” House shrugs, putting down his menu and looking at Wilson. “I also ride a motor-cycle, regularly get sued for medical-malpractice, I drink too much, and I lie. I never put any effort into grooming, which is why it took me twenty-five minutes too long to shave and comb my hair. Oh, and I’m not Jewish. That’s not gonna be a problem, is it?”

“Damn,” Wilson winces, “Yeah, my mom only lets me date Jewish drug addicts. I should put that on my dating profile so I don’t lead anyone else on, huh?”

“It’d save us all a lot of time.”

Oh wow. This is actually nice, and not too weird. It’s not as if they haven’t been to fancy restaurants together before- they have, plenty of times, but this, he thought, might be a little different. And it is, but in a nice way. House smirking at him from across the table, eyes scanning over him. 

“You look nice,” he remarks evenly. 

OK. Well, now he does feel awkward, because he wants to say ‘thank you’ or something, but he has no idea how to respond to House paying compliments on his appearance. “I have no idea how to respond to you paying compliments on my appearance,” he admits. 

House huffs. “You don’t have to respond,” he shrugs, looking down at his menu. “What wine were you drinking when you thought I’d stood you up?”

“Chardonnay. It wasn’t bad.”

House sighs as he looks at the menu. “You’re going to be awkward and have something that make it impossible to choose a bottle to share, aren’t you.”

“How could you _possibly_ guess that?”

“Because I know you,” he exhales a little wearily, twitching his lips as he looks at the wine list. 

And Wilson supposes it’s true. House can look at a stranger and deduce what they had for breakfast three days ago, but when it comes to Wilson, he doesn’t need any of those clues. He just knows him. 

“I was gonna…” For fuck’s sake, he hates that House is right. “I was gonna get the chicken.”

House rolls his eyes. “In a _steak_ restaurant.”

“I’m trying to cut down on red meat!”

“And you chose a _steak_ restaurant.”

“Because I knew you’d like it, don’t be a jerk about it.”

House darts a look up at him, acknowledging this sacrifice. Sucks his teeth as he looks through the wine list. 

“I’m deferring to your judgement,” Wilson says. “I’m not the one who knows what tannins match well with Vicodin.”

“That is because you are a cretin,” he replies simply. “2001 Zinfadel.”

“Ok then.”

“Is this the sort of place you would’ve taken your wives?”

Wilson hesitates a little at the sudden question. House smiles at him innocently, balancing his chin on the backs of his hands. 

“You’re right,” Wilson says, “when I take people out on dates, I always want to share stories about my exes. This isn’t a stupid idea at all.”

“Remember when I hung out with Bonnie a few weeks ago, under the clever guise of needing a new apartment?”

Wilson sighs, lays out his napkin. “Yes. That fun thing that happened.” 

“She said that you didn’t realise you were dating,” House explains cheerily, “and that you’d convinced yourself into thinking that you were just hanging out as friends. Until she jumped you.”

“Yes, you had told me that. Which, by the way, I’m sure Bonnie would be really pleased about.”

“Now, I haven’t chatted much with Julie-”

“There’s a reason for that. She hates you and you hate her.” Wilson frowns. “Which now makes a lot of sense. You hated _all_ my exes-”

“But I wouldn’t be surprised if she said the same about how you guys started out.”

“Uh- _huh_ … where is this going?”

“It took you over a decade to realise we were basically dating the entire time.” House looks at him with a smug smile. “And then _I_ had to be the one to confess my undying, irrevocable love for you, the guy who’s so emotionally constipated he can’t even say ‘thank you’ to the waiter when he pours my water.”

Wilson laughs, rubbing his face. “No. This isn’t the same.”

House pauses, looking at Wilson. “It’d better not be.”

His laughter dwindles, and he suddenly realises what House is getting at. Wilson watches him as he dips his finger into the glass of water and starts circling the wine glass rim to make a high, singing note. 

“House-”

Which is the exact moment the waiter arrives to take their orders. House orders for him, and he wants to complain, but it turns out that he knows exactly what he wants as well as the chicken main, giving him a judgemental glance when he says ‘ _and a side salad for the lady_ ’. Wilson gets the feeling that this is House’s vindictive way of proving that he knows him better than any of his ex-wives and that he does what he wants without relying on Wilson. It’s _meant_ to be bitchy. Wilson thinks it’s kind of cute.

So when the waiter disappears, he stretches a hand across the table, palm upwards. House looks at it, takes it. His hands are rough. So different to anyone else he’s held hands with. 

“This is different,” he assures. 

House measures him. It always makes him feel exposed, having those cold-blue eyes staring at him. Then, sounding completely unconvinced, “Uh-huh.”

He sighs. “I don’t expect you to believe it, even if you do believe it. You know- there’s a difference between believing that someone means what they’re saying, and believing they’ll actually follow through. But I can promise you, deep down, truly,” Wilson says, patting House’s hand, “that I would rather stick needles in my eye than marry you.”

For a second, House looks genuinely shocked. It’s satisfying. Then he scoffs a laugh. “Wh-” 

Oh, this is _very_ satisfying. A speechless Gregory House?

“ _I_ hate organising weddings,” Wilon explains. “You would turn it into a weird… game or something. And we’d be subjecting all the people we actually care about to watching us bitch at each other in front of an altar.”

“But you like weddings,” House argues. “You’ve had three of them. You’re addicted to weddings. You enjoy the grand gestures and the proclaimations of love. Or whatever it is people do.”

“You’ve been to and _sulked_ at two of mine so you know what it is people do at weddings. And it wasn’t the wedding itself I liked- it was…” Wilson trails off, frowning to himself. OK, this date got deep real quick. He hangs onto House’s hand. “On the one hand, it was a way of convincing myself- more than the people around me- that what I had was real. If I could commit, then nothing could possibly go wrong. That’s what I’d tell myself. But beneath that… it didn’t matter how many failed marriages proved that theory incorrect, because if I could let my fiancé organise her perfect wedding that she dreamed of since she was a little girl, I was making her happy in that moment. And if I was vowing to commit to her, I was doing the hard part. Being a good husband. It was my way of… giving _them_ everything in that one moment, so I wouldn’t have to ever commit again. Commitment without sacrifice.”

He looks at House, who’s calculating stare has shifted a little. 

“This isn’t the same,” Wilson says. 

House stares at the tablecloth. Wilson strokes his thumb across House’s knuckles. 

“Besides,” Wilson says, “You and I getting married would probably punch a hole in the space-time continuum. Paradoxes like that defy the laws of physics.”

His gaze moves to fix on Wilson, and the humour has returned to it. “But if we got married, then we could both have the same surname. ‘Doctor House is in exam room one’- ‘wait, I meant the other Doctor House, gosh _darn_ it, bamboozled again.’”

“Why the hell would I take your name?”

“The Wilson surname has cursed three of your marriages already,” House explains. “Plus, I’m a world-renowned doctor, I couldn’t possibly lose my name. How would people know who to send hate mail to?”

“That’s fun. And I would probably get half of it falsely delivered to me, as the hospital’s less famous, knock-off Doctor House.”

“See? It’s a win-win.”

The bottle of wine arrives. House, having been the one who ordered and apparently giving off the air of being in charge, is the one who is offered to taste. He gives Wilson a smug look for that, spending far too much time swirling the centimetre of wine in his glass and sloshing it around his mouth. Eventually, though, after Wilson kicks him in the shin, he confirms that the wine will do just fine and the waiter pours, disappearing. 

Wilson watches House over the rim of his glass as he drinks, and House watches back. They’ve both relaxed now, but this whole date thing is still new territory. It feels like they’re playing it out like it’s a game, and it makes Wilson want to laugh. The light spice of red wine on his tongue. 

He puts his glass down. “You’re OK with that, right?”

“What?” he demands, spreading butter on a roll. 

“The fact that I don’t want to get married again.” Wilson watches House pause and stare at him incredulously. “What? Maybe you secretly wanted to get married one day and I just didn’t know. It would be shitty of me to assume-”

“But you thought you’d lead with ‘I’d rather poke needles in my eyes than marry you?”

“Right. Yes, so, I did assume, and now I’m backtracking.”

House points a butter knife at him. “You’re overthinking.”

“This… matters to me!” 

“Relax,” House mutters, continuing to spread butter on the roll. He tears off a piece and talks with his mouthful. “I was never the type to make pretty collages of the perfect wedding dress from magazine ads. You’ve successfully convinced me that this is different to your past relationships.”

Except, he won’t look him in the eye. He’s clearly gearing up to say something else, and Wilson waits, heart hammering like a Phil Collins drum solo. They’re actually talking to each other and dating each other and it’s working. This is working. 

“I didn’t…” House starts tearing up pieces of bread on his place. There’s a look on his face that says he’s debating whether he’s prepared to share this out loud. Which means it’s going to matter, and it’s going to be cheesy, and Wilson is at the edge of his seat, breathing out of his mouth. “I didn’t believe in anything like unconditional love until I met you. With all the shit that went down with Tritter this year… you did more for me than I deserved. Should have figured out there and then that you love me. Textbook diagnosis.”

Wilson watches at House tears his bread roll into shreds, not meeting his eye. He stretches a foot out and leans it against House’s, ankles touching. It’s small, but it’s enough for him to look up, sulking a little as if he’d forced him to share this. 

“I probably should have figured it out then, too.”

House’s eyes smile. He picks up a piece of bread-roll and throws it at Wilson. He winces, but doesn’t recoil. Somehow, he’d been expecting that. 

“We’re in a very fancy restaurant,” he says simply. 

“You can still throw fancy bread.”

Wilson smiles, and House looks back down at the tablecloth. And they gossip about various members of hospital staff until their food arrives, the rest of their date panning out just as they all the others have over the past decade. 

***

House has always watched the seasons turn by in the same way a student might watch the minute hand creep closer to the hour on a clock. Soon, the school day will be over. There’s the excitement for this current stretch of time to end, but naturally, it then makes way for another day, and he has to wait all over again. Wait for time to end. 

About a month into his and Wilson’s relationship, he notices the way the sun comes through the curtains. It’s a different kind of sunlight to the usual winter mornings: something yellower, something that hints at a blue sky and warmth. Spring, maybe. It’s not as if he’s sure of it- he’ll probably open the curtains and find a grey sky. That’s not the thing that matters, what matters is that anticipatory feeling, that gentle breeze of joy going through his body that he hasn’t felt in decades. He isn’t sure when he lost it. He doesn’t remember it going. 

Love doesn’t cure depression. It certainly doesn’t cure trauma. It doesn’t cure anything, and neither does time- even if everyone says that both love and time are the best cures out there. As a doctor, House can quite reliably argue that there is no medicinal value in either love or time. Old-wives tales are bullshit. In fact, historically, love has hurt more people than it’s cured. It’s caused him more than enough pain. 

It’s also kind of nice, though. 

‘Kind of nice’ is what House has been missing in his life. There are things that he relies on- drugs, alcohol, adrenaline- and there are things he likes- music, food, Wilson. The things he likes are kind of nice, and they dredge up the childlike happiness he was meant to have when he was _actually_ a child. The sound of a perfect melody, or a song he wrote. The taste of a surprisingly delicious dish that he’s never had before. Affection, unreserved and without ultimatum. The feeling of waking up in the night and finding Wilson there, asleep with his mouth hanging open. The feeling of waking up from a nightmare, Wilson holding him and saying nothing, knowing better than the tell him ‘it’s just a nightmare’ because they’re never just nightmares, never. The feeling of knowing he’s there. Unreserved. Without ultimatum. 

It’s more than kind of nice. It makes him happy- and maybe that’s why he avoided love for so long. Now, at least, he feels like he deserves to be happy. 

***

On one such morning, House wakes up to find Wilson edging out of bed, as carefully as he can without waking him. 

“What’re you doing?”

Wilson stops and peers down at him. And then he leans to kiss him on the forehead. “I’m trying to get out of bed.”

“No.”

He doesn’t like Wilson getting up before him. Not only does it mean he’s going to be horribly noisy somewhere- tunelessly singing in the shower, blow-drying his hair, washing up in the kitchen- it also means that the bed will be less warm. And he likes cuddling more than he’s ever willing to admit. 

“I’m hungry,” Wilson complains, lips against his forehead. 

“Too bad.”

Wilson huffs. He moves to get up, and House tries to grab his t-shirt, but too late- he’s already leaving the bedroom.

“I don’t love you anymore,” House calls groggily.

He listens with his eyes closed as Wilson pads over to the bathroom and turns on the shower. He’s left the door open, so the water sounds loud as it hits the ceramic. When he rolls onto his back and opens his eyes, House sees the steam is rolling out into the corridor. He watches it. He lets his eyes fall shut again, not really sleeping, but not really staying awake, either. It’s nice to listen to Wilson existing. 

The shower turns off. There’s the patter of wet feet on the floor, a rustle of towels being hung up on the heated-rail. Surprisingly, no hairdryer, which means that House will get to see it drying naturally; an image that he’s only just getting to see now they’re dating, and it’s strangely intimate. The sound of clothes being put on, a window opening in the bathroom and the door closing behind him as he pads down the corridor. 

How long will it take for House to get used to hearing these things? It’s not as if he hasn’t experienced the morning routines of his exes- a picture of Stacy sitting on the end of the bed, pulling on her tights, or leaning over their bathroom sink to apply lipstick. But Wilson has his own things, like the way he always brushes his teeth _before_ he showers, or the face moisturiser that he’s left on the shelf above House’s sink that smells like cucumber. 

Music. The CD he made him when they started dating, some cheesy doo-wop number that he tries not to regret putting on there. House sighs, giving up on his fake-nap, and opens his eyes, looking at the ceiling. The kitchen cupboards clatter open and closed. 

House follows the sound of the music, shuffling down the corridor without his cane and wincing in the morning light that’s pouring through the living room windows. He freezes at the kitchen threshold. And then he leans against the doorframe and smiles inwardly. 

Wilson doing his dad-dancing. That sort of shuffle that really couldn’t qualify as dancing at all, a bag of flour in one hand and a mixing bowl in the other one. And then he’s measuring a cup of flour as he shimmies, humming badly to himself and- House believes- completely unaware that he’s being watched. Dancing in his boxer shorts and McGill sweatshirt. He’s drumming his hands against the counter, shaking his hips, and House is too thrilled by how embarrassing this is to stop him. It’s not until he’s fetching eggs, closing the fridge door, that he notices House standing there. 

In surprise, h drops the eggs- and catches them, just before they smash on the floor. The CD moves onto its next, deliriously corny song. 

“How long have you been standing there?” Wilson demands. 

“Are you making pancakes?” 

Wilson sighs, shoulders sagging and going back to the kitchen counter, where he’s started measuring out the other ingredients for the batter. “I am, yes. How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to know you were ‘dancing like no one was watching’. It wasn’t as cute as the movies said it should be.”

“I was _happy_ ,” Wilson complains, cracking an egg into the bowl. House leans against the counter beside him, passes him the second egg. “I was feeling good this morning. Some people express such emotions through the mode of dance.”

“You don’t. And that wasn’t dancing.”

“No one said I was good at it.”

House watches Wilson measure out milk. There’s flour on the kitchen counter, and he gets more on it when he turns on the whisk and mixes the ingredients. A little lands on his sweatshirt. House watches the process with interest. 

“Cut those strawberries.”

House turns to where Wilson is pointedly looking over his shoulder. “When did you buy strawberries?”

“Last night, after work. I knew you wouldn’t get milk like I asked you to, so I just got it myself. And I picked up breakfast stuff along the way.”

The strawberries look good. House takes a knife and a chopping board, starts cutting a few up. “See, this is why I never do any of the chores,” he says over the sound of the whisk. “You’re a pushover. You give up on getting me to do anything before I even try. Takes the fun out of it completely.”

Wilson sighs, turning off the whisk and shaking batter off the ends into the bowl. “Sometimes it’s not worth nagging you about it. Believe me, you do a lot more than you could be.”

What the hell does that mean? “What the hell does that mean?”

A conspiratorial smile as he turns on the hob and melts butter in a pan. “I have my ways.”

“You do _not_. You’re not _that_ good a manipulator. No one ‘accidentally does housework’. Don’t you think I’d _notice_ if I was doing housework?”

Wilson shrugs, begins pouring batter into the pan. It sizzles quietly. “I dunno. I suppose you would. Hey, mind chopping two of those bananas, too?”

He licks some of the strawberry juice on his wrist before picking two bananas from the fruit bowl- a piece of kitchenware he didn’t own a month ago. “Unless you’re suggesting I’m doing housework in my sleep,” he mutters.

“True, that must be it. When you’ve done that, just leave them on the board. Can you get the maple syrup? I don’t remember where you keep it.”

“Yeah you do, you put it in there the other day when I was unpacking the shopping,” he argues.

“It’s either in the cupboard to the left of the fridge, or the right- I can’t remember.” 

Wilson unsticks the first pancake and plates it, pouring more mixture into the pan. House rolls his eyes and opens the cupboard, hand bracing his leg over his pyjama bottoms- locates the maple syrup, and-

A cold, sinking feeling of horror. 

He spins and glares at Wilson, who bears the pursed-lipped smile of false innocence. 

“How the hell are you doing that?” House demands. 

The next song plays. The kitchen window is open, so he can hear cars outside and people chatting as they pass the apartment. Wilson shrugs. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“You’re- I’m _cooking_ with you,” House says, incredulous and a little bit in awe. “You’ve got me unpacking groceries.”

“I have you whipped,” Wilson confirms. 

House holds onto the kitchen counter to support him through this horrifying realisation. Wilson whistles along to Dean Martin. 

“How are you doing it?” he demands again. 

“Well, if I _told_ you, it’d take the magic out of it,” he replies with a flourish of his hands, magician-esque. 

“You’ve managed to get me subconsciously doing chores.”

“It’s been… an interesting experiment. I’m surprised we’ve managed to get this far without you noticing.”

He leans against the kitchen table and watches Wilson with a new found respect. He loves him, sure, and he’s always seen him as worthy competition for assholery. But wow; he thinks the young padawan has learned more than even _House_ knows. 

“Now, I _know_ you’d never obsess over this,” Wilson jokes, prying another pancake from the pan and adding it to the stack, “but in the unlikely even that you do- I haven’t actually been doing anything particularly different or exciting. So you don’t need to figure out what mystical forces I’m using to manipulate you. It just seems like… old dogs really _can_ learn new tricks.”

House narrows his eyes, smirking. Folds his arms across his chest as he views Wilson. “I’m being helpful around the house because I love you? That’s both adorable and completely not true.”

“It’s just a theory,” Wilson laughs, brandishing a spatula. 

“It’s a stupid one. I was in love with you long before I started pulling my weight-”

“Except- we didn’t _live_ together then.”

“We did for a while. And I stole your lunches and pranked you constantly.”

Wilson shrugs _again_. 

“That’s all you’ve got?” House complains. 

“Like I said, it’s a theory. I don’t want to analyse it too much. Pass the pancake mix.”

House passes the pancake mix. Wilson accepts it. 

Wait a second, did he just-?

“Good God,” House exclaims theatrically. “I’m- I’m doing it without realising! When will this nightmare end!”

Wilson laughs, pouring another pancake. And then, setting down the bowl, he steps towards House and puts his arms around his neck. Stupid, smug smile. “What if, deep down- now, I warn you, this could be truly horrible- you actually _want_ to be nice to me. You’re happier, we’re together, so you’re not fighting it anymore.”

House pretends to think about it. “No. Sorry, doesn’t seem possible.”

The music plays, the sound of cars stopped at the traffic lights outside. The taste of toothpaste on Wilson’s lips as they kiss, and the sense that this could, actually, be happiness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features a therapy appointment where House talks About His Feelings, as a trigger warning! Otherwise this is a fluffy chapter!!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading this, I hope you've enjoyed it! <3

“I still don’t understand why we’re doing this,” House mumbles, hovering behind Wilson in the doorway. 

The floors here are a nice hardwood, the rooms large and bright, the perks of it being a converted warehouse building. On the ground floor, with a view of the dog-walking park rather than traffic lights and bus routes. There’s a tall window to the left, to the right some sliding doors through to a kitchen with another tall window, the ceiling cutting through it. It’s the nicest place they’ve seen all day, and Wilson isn’t totally sure why; he thinks it’s just a particular vibe he’s getting. 

“I proposed we find somewhere new together,” Wilson replies simply, arching his neck to look at the high ceilings. “You agreed.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

The estate agent awkwardly backs away, giving them her best customer-service smile as she disappears down the corridor. Wilson winces a smile back, before turning to view House, who lingers on the threshold of the apartment. 

“Why?” he demands. “You weren’t digging in your heels this morning.”

“I like _my_ apartment.”

“Ah yes… or as _I_ like to call it, the ‘Sad Den’.”

House glares. Wilson had managed to persuade him that going flat hunting together would be a nice idea purely so they could have their own space- so he didn’t feel like he was moving into House’s temporarily. There was also the added argument that House’s current flat brings a lot of bad memories and that a change in scenery might be good. But then, of course, the ‘change’ argument is not one that House is won over by easily. 

“It’s close to work, it’s functional, and I’m used to it,” House says, stepping further into the apartment and casting suspicious eyes about its empty quarters. “This is only one of those things.”

“It _is_ close to work, so I’m assuming that you’re saying it’s not functional, which is a straight up lie.”

“Look! It has no furniture! How un-functional can you get? You expect me to sleep on the floor?”

Wilson doesn’t bother responding to this, considering that they’re _intentionally_ looking at unfurnished apartments so they can move in their own furniture, and House knows it. The estate agent creeps out from the corridor again, a young woman with a clipboard pressed to her chest and a perpetual anxiety line between her brows- or maybe it’s just that their presence makes her look like that. 

“The floors are American cherrywood- they were fitted fairly recently so they’ll have some wear in them for a good long while,” she adds a cheery, nervous laugh. “The living room is West facing, so you’ll get some nice sunlight in the summer evenings. The bathroom is fit with accessibility railings and there’s a really awesome rolltop tub in there, too.”

“Oh,” House scoffs, “ _awesome._ ”

Wilson elbows him. “Sounds great. Do you mind just giving us a couple of minutes?”

“Of course.” Honestly, she seems delighted to have the chance to escape, for which Wilson is not surprised. Her heels knock against the floor as she hurries as casually as possible out the door. 

Wilson turns and examines House.

“Explain to me why our estate agent is showing us around on a school night,” House complains, stepping further into the apartment and looking out of the window. 

“She’s young, but she’s not shown us _one_ apartment that I haven’t liked. You’re just awkward.” Wilson folds his arms and views House. He’s looking at the apartment with a deep-set frown, but there’s interest in his eyes. “Pray, tell me, what is it about this place that you already don’t like?”

“Too suburban,” he replies immediately. “They’ll see us as ‘that nice gay couple down the road’ and invite us the dinner parties. They’ll be desperate to get to know us so we can be their token queer friends.” 

“So we’ll be the friendly, neighbourhood bisexuals. Sorta… has a ring to it. I should print off business cards.”

“Don’t let their home-made, ‘welcome to the area’ casserole sway you, Wilson.”

He throws his hands in the air, giving up this fight already. If he’s honest, he thinks this apartment is perfect. But if he says as much, House will immediately take the opposite position and start listing all the ways it wouldn’t work: they could get heavy-metal poisoning from the pipes- the floors are loud- it’s too _nice_. 

House is making his way down the corridor to the bedroom and bathroom, prodding doors open with his cane. He halts outside one of them, stooping through the threshold. “There’s a second bedroom,” he calls.

Wilson ambles over to his side, poking his head through the doorway of said second bedroom. And then, hanging onto House’s arm and pouring as much theatre as he can into his words: “House- I want a baby.”

It’s a shame that he immediately recognises it as a joke, because he would loved to have seen House have a minor meltdown, even if just for a second. Instead, he dips out of the room again, heading back the way they came. 

“I thought it might be nice for an office, or a music room, or something.”

“We already have offices. We don’t need one at home.”

God, why does he make things so hard? “By the way, I hate to say it,” Wilson says, “but this part of Plainsboro isn’t all that suburban. This is a converted warehouse apartment building, House. Just because there are restaurants and cafes instead of bars doesn’t make it suburban.”

“There are women in yoga pants. Everywhere. And I can almost guarantee that they’re not going to the gym.”

He turns the corner and House is pushing the sliding door a little. And the kitchen comes into full view; big, simply decorated, bright, with polished concrete counter tops. It makes Wilson pause. It’s… nice. He’d never imagined having a kitchen like this, so modern- but it’s _really_ nice. Wilson explores a little further, leaning across the counter to look through the window. The street on this side of the building is higher up, so there’s a little patio and some steps up to the pavement above. There’s some old garden furniture that needs replacing, and if Wilson reaches far enough, he can see the people walking up above. It’s easy to imagine washing up at the sink and spying on people. It must be so sunny in here in the mornings. And just when he’s beginning to wish House liked it here as much as he does, he notices the way he’s hovering in the doorway, then stepping in further, slowly, thoughtfully. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

House looks at him, then around the room. He has that expression on his face; that sort of distant look that he gets when he’s figured out the answer to a case. It usually indicates that he’s about to get up and go without another word. Wilson wishes he could see what House is seeing in his mind right now. There’s something going through his head right now, and he has no idea what it is. 

“You like it, don’t you?” 

House blinks, looks away, casting his eyes about the high ceilings. “I like it,” he admits quietly, begrudgingly. 

This, Wilson thinks, is what triumph feels like. He leans against the counter, hands in his pockets. “That’s- that’s great. We should let Emily know.”

House rolls his eyes. “ _Emily._ ”

“Yes, the estate agent has a name.” It occurs to him suddenly. “Wait. Why do you like it?”

He gets a measuring look. “l just like it. I don’t have to give a reason.”

“Was someone… _murdered_ here, perhaps? Because I can’t live somewhere where someone was murdered, even if you find it fascinating.”

“I like it!” House argues. “You’ve been telling me all day that I need to let go of the old place, and I have!”

Wilson smirks, steps into House’s space and puts his hands on his arms. House looks away, irritated. “If we put an offer down and I find out there’s a body buried under the floorboards…”

A slow, weary sigh. House looking over his shoulder, not making eye contact. _Here we go_ , Wilson thinks. “I can imagine it,” House shrugs. “This is the first place we’ve seen that I can actually imagine us living in.”

Wilson nods, ducking his head a little to hide his smile. “Same.”

House frowns down at him. “You should have said so.”

“How could I have possibly said so,” he laughs, and House continues to scrutinise him. “The moment I say I like something, you have an urge to say that it’s awful or… embarrassing, or stupid. I didn’t wanna risk that.”

Wilson waits for House’s retort, but he doesn’t get one: just a frown. In fact, he actually looks a little upset. Which Wilson hadn’t meant at all. It shocks him into speechlessness for a moment. 

“I-” Wilson stumbles, squeezing his arms. “If that were a genuine issue for me, I’d’ve said so at some point over the past… however many years. I, actually… like that you rip the shit out of me and tease me. Even if it means, sometimes, I keep some things to myself.”

House doesn’t respond. It looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know how. He almost looks remorseful. Wilson stares. The afternoon is changing to evening and the sun pours through the living room window. 

“You actually been _learning_ something from those therapy sessions, haven’t you?” he says with some humour.

The look in House’s eyes is flighty, but Wilson keeps his hands gently on his arms. When they started dating, Wilson suggested they both start seeing therapists- individually, not couple’s therapy. Good God, no- he’s not prepared for that. He was planning on finding someone to talk to anyway, what with his various relationship issues and failed marriages which he absolutely does not want to conflict with his thing with House. When he proposed that House do the same, he knew that he’d be shut down. Which he was. To be honest, it was laughable that he even tried to suggest it. 

And then, magically, somewhere along the two-month marker of their relationship, House announced that he had a hot, young therapist by the name of Sandy who scared the shit out of him and was therefore acceptable. 

Naturally, he’s missed plenty of appointments. The only way for House to attend something so personally torturous as therapy is if he does it on his own terms, sauntering into Sandy’s office whenever he feels like it without booking anything. Wilson’s never met her, and he doesn’t think he should. That, and she also sounds sort of mythical by this point. Any human who manages to intimidate House without bullying or manipulating him is probably some kind of terrifying, Eldritch creature. 

Now, House looks down at Wilson, eyes searching. 

“Yeah, therapy’s great. Love it. We talk about you over mojitos. Only occasionally do we discuss that time I got shot.”

Wilson doesn’t humour him. 

“Anyway,” House says a little too breezily. “You like the place, I like the place…”

Wilson nods. “So, let’s get the place.”

They turn to look at the living room, where the sun is coming through and leaving dust particles dancing. 

***

It’s the hottest day of the year. His case is annoying him and Wilson is busy doing something inconveniently out of his reach. It has become a bit of a habit on such days for House to burst into his therapist’s office without announcement. Sandy’s office is on the other side of the hospital, a walk to the opposite building and down a long, boring corridor. She has a PA, who sits at a desk outside her office, and usually says nothing to House other than ‘she’s busy, come back later’ or ‘oh, it’s you again’.

House appears at said office door and tries to open it without knocking- his usual style. The door is locked and there are voices inside. 

“I can hear you in there,” he calls. 

“She’s started locking the door from the outside.” The PA’s slow, dull voice drifts from over the receptionist’s desk. She has big, sad eyes and sounds like Eeyore. “So, like, the patients aren’t locked in, but you are… definitely locked out.”

House twists his lips. “Huh.”

“She wasn’t too happy when you burst in during one of her other patient’s appointments last week.”

“Tch. Sensitive, much.”

Opting to sit and wait, because he hasn’t got much better to do, he sits down by the door and takes out his Nintendo. 

“I’m not a therapist yet,” the PA starts. “But I am doing psychotherapy as my major-”

“Don’t care,” he interrupts, as the Nintendo switches on.

“-And it’s, like, super obvious to me that the reason you have no respect for anyone else’s space or privacy is because you’ve never had anyone respect your own. People haven’t given you boundaries so you don’t expect them and you don’t see why anyone else would need them.”

“Thank you for the unsolicited counsel, Underperforming College Student. I shall ignore it forever and ever.”

He passes the time by taking a call from his fellows, playing Nintendo, taking a nap. When he wakes up, Sandy is standing in front of him, arms folded and waiting. Blonde hair tied back tight, white blouse damp with sweat marks. 

“Hi, House. Come on in.”

“You’re looking especially slutty today,” he remarks affably.

“Excellent,” is her only response. 

She steps inside her office- sparse, barely decorated except for the chaise longue, two chairs and a coffee table with water, the odd framed piece of inoffensive art- and she opens the door for him to come through, closing it behind him. She takes a seat in the opposite chair, the ‘this is where I sit and listen to your trauma’ chair. House doesn’t like taking either the chair or the chaise longue, choosing to pace and look at the crappy artwork. 

“Why don’t you just turn me away?” he asks suddenly, as she’s only just managed to sit down. He hits his cane against the circuit board. “If I’m obtrusive enough for you to need to change your door to one that locks from the outside…”

She doesn’t supply the words for him, answer, or interrupt. Sandy has a habit of arching one thinly-plucked brow and waiting for House to finish speaking, even if he has.

“… That’s where you’re meant to get what I’m implying,” he says. 

“I don’t talk for you,” she says. “Otherwise there’s no point in this. You were saying? ‘If I feel the need to change the locks on the doors, then?’”

“Then why don’t you just turn me away completely? I’m waiting outside for you to finish, I’m interrupting your other sessions, I’m disrespecting you. You should be telling me to fuck off and meet my appointments properly. Or denying me treatment. Do therapists give up their backbone during training? Is that the sacrifice for being able to read people’s minds?” 

“We don’t read people’s minds,” she replies.

“I know. It was a joke.”

“Haha,” she laughs evenly. 

“The fact that you have no sense of humour makes this totally unenjoyable.”

“Does it? You seem to like coming back.”

“You’re right. I’m hoping that one day, if I keep trying, I’ll be able to get you to crack a smile,” he jokes.

“I could turn you away, but I think that would be kind of mean. Don’t you?”

House frowns at her, exhales in a not-laugh. He straightens the frame on her wall, a ‘painting’ of a ‘flower’ that’s probably meant to be a Freudian analogy for a vagina or something. “You don’t want to hurt my feelings? If you turn me away, I’ll cry and cry because you’re a meanie?”

“No, you wouldn’t cry. We both know you wouldn’t. You don’t cry when your feelings are hurt, we’ve seen that.”

“No, I deflect and seek attention,” he jokes. 

“Why are you saying it like that?”

House frowns at the frame. It won’t sit straight and it’s driving him insane. “Like what?”

“Like it’s a joke.”

House blinks, shrugs. “Because it’s ridiculous. It shouldn’t be important. I act like an ass- and Cuddy and Wilson and my team, they act like it matters.”

“You’ve got their attention,” she says. 

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Do you feel like you have mine?”

He frowns at her. She’s simply looking at him- not measuring or thoughtful or anything, just looking. It’s annoying. 

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” he demands. 

“Do you feel like you have my attention?”

He blinks. “Well, yeah. I burst into your office when you least want me. I see you on my own terms because it’s in my control.”

“I kept you out of here when I was with someone else because I was asserting control of my own boundaries. I came out to get you and now you’re here.” She blinks. “Would you say I’m any less in control of these sessions than you?”

“Only because I asked for these sessions. You haven’t got any power unless you have a patient who asks to be seen.”

She nods. “It’s strange, having a job with that sort of dynamic, isn’t it? You realise that there is a kind of power in it. You let someone in, you shut someone out, you learn everything about them. It’s the same, I imagine, being a doctor.”

“You’re going to ask me why I became a doctor,” House snorts.

“No. But you seem to want to talk about it.”

He snorts again, going back to moving the frame around. “You’re right, subconsciously, I’m bursting to talk about my desire to help people, to fill the aching hole in my chest that needs to be appreciated and loved.”

“Is that another joke?”

House frowns, rolling his eyes. “Obviously. If you’re going to be _my_ therapist, you need to keep up with my acerbic wit.”

“Have you ever said anything about yourself without it being sarcastic?”

“Nope,” he says with a plosive ‘p’. Then, in his best therapist impression: “Because I don’t know how to be kind to myself. I’m derogatory about the things I’m good at and the things that make me happy in life, and I turn every pleasure into a punishment.”

“Does that remind you of anyone?”

“My _father,_ ” he says like a bored school-kid, rolling his eyes again. “Because he literally punished me, so I rebel by destroying myself. See, this is fun,” he adds, gesturing between the two of them. “God, I must be acing this class. I know all the answers already.”

Sandy goes quiet. This means she’s waiting for him to speak some more, usually. He rarely gives in. They’ve had entire appointments where they’ve sat and stared at each other, listening to a clock tick because House won’t talk first. 

“You think you rebel by destroying yourself?” she prompts. “Those are the words you just used.”

House looks at her like she’s a moron. “Yes. Obviously. He taught me that simply existing, doing anything that deviated from his rules and his routine was punishable by beatings and ice-baths and neglect. I rebel by punishing myself first before anyone else can get there, I- cry out for attention, however you want to put it- I seek thrills and purposefully put myself in life-threatening situations to prove that I can survive it. I rebel by solving cases and proving I’m right, proving I’m better, all the while ruining my personal life and pushing away my friends.”

Sandy is looking at him again. That look that isn’t calculating at all, just still and waiting. 

“What?” he demands. 

“You obsess over problems, cases,” she nods. “We’ve discussed that. You obsess over feelings of needing to be right. Needing to be right above-all else, risking anything to be right- including your life- because if you’re not, you have nothing left but the self-loathing to address. Those intrusive thoughts that if you don’t solve the case, if you’re wrong, you’re worth nothing in this universe.”

House sighs. She seems so mild, and then she says shit like that. “Thanks.”

“You compulsively fixate on cases, and you put yourself in, as you say, ‘life-threatening situations’ like induced comas and electric shocks to find that thrill of ‘being right’. Because you _have_ to be right, to negate those feelings that you’ve been trained to feel- the shame and self-hatred you’ve learned. You compulsively deflect whenever anyone gets close to uncovering those feelings. I’d still like you to try and identify any other compulsions you may have noticed about yourself, if you can.”

“You could just _tell_ me,” he argues, dropping his cane against the floor and catching it before it falls. “What’s the point in a therapist if she won’t _therapise_?”

“I am not diagnosing you with OCD so you can walk out of this office and never talk to me again,” she replies calmly. “For some patients, it helps to have the diagnosis. For you- I’m not giving you the answer. You enjoy the game. You enjoy searching for the clues. I’m asking you to do that- I’m not doing the work for you.”

“I like knowing the answer,” he argues, dropping the cane over and over. 

“Only if you can figure it out yourself. If I told you the answers to all of your problems- which, by the way, I don’t have- you’d go away and try and find the answer yourself anyway.”

“OK! So I compulsively destroy myself to avoid my daddy’s voice in my head that I’m a pathetic, lying worm of a human being!” House shouts, surprising himself. “Well done, A+! If I punish myself, then I’m cleansing myself of my sins! If I do what it takes to solve a case, then I’m right and I’m worth something! I could have told you that months ago!”

“Do you think the drug abuse and the thrill-seeking are the acts of rebellion, then?”

House hangs his head, forehead against the wall. “Stop.”

“You’re free to go whenever you like, House. Do you think _those_ things are the acts of rebellion? Your compulsions? Or do you think it’s more rebellious to be happy?”

His head knocks against the wall. “That makes no sense.”

“It might sound strange. But if you have developed these compulsions as a coping mechanism for shame and feelings of worthlessness, habits you’ve picked up from your childhood, then isn’t it more rebellious to do the opposite? To break the compulsions with something kinder?”

House continues to knock his head. He’s getting a headache. He winces. “You think I’m ‘sticking it to the man’ if I’m being _nice_ to myself? You know, my dad didn’t care about me being happy, but he actively didn’t _want_ me to be a drug addict with a criminal record. That feels kinda more rebellious. Bubble-baths and ‘me time’ aren’t very punk-rock.”

Sandy huffs. It’s almost a laugh, but not quite. House hits his head against the wall. 

“Maybe I don’t want to rebel by being kind to myself. I don’t want to be happy. Ever thought of that?”

“Then why are you here?”

House growls with irritation, head banging.

“This is important,” she says.

“Why is any of this important.”

“Because you’ve been hitting your head against the wall for almost five minutes.”

House opens his eyes, sticks up an index finger. “Aha! I found one! I found a compulsion! Do I get a sticker?”

“You’ve started showing more and more acts of rebellion recently. For a while, before then, you were stuck in a bit of a rut. What do you think triggered that?”

House gestures dismissively to his leg. “Infarctions that leave you crippled tend to do that. So does a sadistic cop deciding he’s out to get you. How exactly have I been kind to myself recently? I mean, I bought myself a Reuben for lunch, if that counts.”

“It could do. What about your relationship with Wilson, though? Wouldn’t you say that’s an act of rebellion?”

At that, he stops and glares at Sandy. “Don’t bring him into this.”

“This is therapy, House. About you. Wilson is a big part of your life.”

“He isn’t just an act of rebellion,” he retorts. “He isn’t some consolation prize.”

“I would never reduce your relationship to something so simple,” Sandy says, holding up her hands. “I’m saying it’s a good thing. You’ve acknowledged that you needed to tell him how you felt. You wanted to make a change, to break the cycle and choose happiness for yourself.”

House stares at the grey-cream wall. His head hurts. He leans on his cane. 

“And if it doesn’t work out? With Wilson.”

Sandy doesn’t reply immediately. “Then it’d hurt like hell. But it doesn’t make it any less important.”

House leans a shoulder against the wall. Sandy sits in her chair, legs crossed, and looks at him. Looks and looks, occasionally blinking, just to remind him that she isn’t a reptile. 

“You let me in here,” House starts, feeling suddenly exhausted, “because you don’t want me to stop. I’m helping myself by coming here. And you think it would be cruel to deprive me of that. You’re trying to help me be kind to myself.”

“Did you feel angry when you found the door locked today?” she asks after a brief pause of confirmation. 

“No,” he retorts.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he amends. “It’s not the same as my parents. I resent them for neglecting me. I don’t resent you for having other patients.”

“You might do just a little bit, without realising,” she says. “You do burst in here when I’m trying to talk to other people. Reverting to something jealous and child-like.”

“I don’t like that they have you all to themselves,” he jokes.

She shrugs.

“Fuck off,” he spits.

And then, she smiles.

House points at her. “Ah, I knew you were a beautiful ray of sunshine, deep down,” he mocks. 

“You said earlier that you don’t feel like you have the attention of the people you care about.”

“I apparently have yours.”

“Do you _feel_ like you have it?”

“…Yeah.”

“What about Wilson?”

House leans his head against the wall. He frowns at the mountain painting behind Sandy. “Stop trying to poke holes.”

“I’m not trying to poke holes. I’m asking whether you feel loved.”

“He loves me. He tells me all the time, he shows it.”

Sandy nods slowly, wears her ‘waiting’ expression. 

“It’s hard to feel it,” he says eventually. “He told me once- forever ago, about a patient- that being able to feel appreciated, accept ‘thank you’s without deflecting takes time. He compared it to working a muscle. It required more hard work than I could be bothered to put in.”

Sandy continues to nod. 

“I want to feel it, now,” House says.

There’s a long pause between them. It’s different from those stretches of quiet where House refuses to speak, where Sandy refuses to give him the answers. It’s a quiet of acknowledgement. And after a while, House sits down, feeling heavy and tired and _more_ than he has done in a long time.

***

There are arguments. And some heartbreaks. 

Nothing either of them do is perfect, nor is either of them completely at fault. They’ve known each other to be bastards through and through for years now, and it’s part of what made them fall in love- contrary to all the tricks, the lies, the games. House will always require too much looking after, even if he doesn’t ask for it; Wilson will always try to help even when he shouldn’t; House will always do what it takes to keep the prescriptions filled; Wilson will always enable him; House will always worry too much about Wilson; Wilson will rarely notice that House cares; House will always aggravate people he shouldn’t; Wilson will always takes his side, even when he pretends he isn’t, even when he knows he shouldn’t. 

It’s easy for them to love each other, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a lot of work, a long way for them both to stretch out to reach the other’s hand. Their sabotage and differences and arguments has cut a valley between them. But after some time, the middle ground gets easier to stand on. It gets wider, so there’s space for them both. The chasm seems to fill with standing space, without either of them noticing. And House sees that things are better like this. 

***

The bookshelves have photo frames.

It’s something that a few people have pointed out to him: that he had no pictures in his old apartment. Models of the human anatomy, yes. Books? Plenty of them. Records, sheet music, all of that stuff, but none of the little momentos. House always felt that when people told him that he had nothing personal in his apartment, he was meant to act offended. The problem is that it didn’t offend him. There was no point in him collecting photos or ticket stubs or whatever, because he had what made him happy. Or, well, functional. 

Wilson isn’t the same. Wilson likes to surround himself with things he likes, movie posters and gifts and knick-knacks. His desk has dying-kid gifts on rotation. His apartment has always been similar, just without the dead-people things, which is where House draws the line. 

If he were less of a push-over, he’d have drawn the line when Wilson started framing pictures of _them_. But alas, he is a pushover. And so, he plays the piano in their living room, evening light behind him, eyes fixed on a photo of them in London last Christmas. The only reason he’s smiling in it is because he’s drunk, and Wilson didn’t know how to use his iPhone yet, which was somewhat entertaining. He’s looking at Wilson rather than the camera. 

“House. Seriously, how the hell have you already got food all over your shirt, we haven’t even started eating yet.”

He doesn’t look away from the photo. He’s half day-dreaming because he’s tired after a long day at work, half day-dreaming because that trip to London had been aggressively delightful. “Hungry. Want food. Found chips and dip.”

“That’s… I _slave away_ over a _delicious meal_ ,” Wilson complains, mockingly theatrical. 

“I haven’t ruined my appetite, mom.”

House continues to play idly on the piano, his gaze on Wilson who leans against it. Now that they’re no longer hiding the googly eyes from each other, he’ll occasionally watch House play and House will complain that he finds it annoying and distracting, but play anyway. 

“When is the devil and her spawn due to arrive?”

“She said she’s a couple of minutes late.” The piano notes ring nicely in this apartment with its high ceilings and wood floors. “I still can’t believe Cuddy is actually a mother now.”

“Don’t tell her that. She’ll try show you more pictures of her kid to convince you.”

“She’s not _that_ bad. All parents get a bit… excited about their kids. It’s nice that she wants to tell us all about Joy.”

“It saps the _joy_ out of my life.”

Wilson sighs. “This is a literal baby we’re talking about, House. Please do not be totally horrific. Maybe say something nice before you start mocking it.”

House pouts and gives Wilson puppy eyes. 

“Ah yes… those striking blue eyes have won me over once again,” Wilson says evenly. 

“It’s a baby. It doesn’t know it’s being mocked.”

Wilson snorts. “Imagine if you were secretly good with children.”

“I am good with children.” He looks at Wilson, who then realises that he isn’t joking. “People are desperate to make children laugh or make them like them. I’m not willing to make an idiot out of myself to impress them. Most kids respect that.”

“I’m sure Joy will come to the same conclusion,” Wilson notes faux-seriously. “Five-month olds do have excellent reasoning skills.”

“Why are we doing this again?” House asks, wincing. 

“Because Cuddy wanted to see where we live, because she is… a friend, even if we both like to pretend she isn’t-”

“She isn’t.”

“- And because she’s desperate to do something that doesn’t involve running a hospital by day and cleaning up puke by night.”

“So she’s bringing the puke to us. Thank you so much, both of you, really.”

The doorbell rings with perfect timing. Cuddy arrives with baby in one arm and carrier in the other, Wilson is hilariously awkward, House doesn’t get up from the piano stool. Cuddy introduces Wilson to Joy; Wilson pretends he knows how to act around a baby. House watches with amusement. Cuddy smiles at him expectantly, already a little irritated, but House doesn’t get up to greet them.

“Well, this is a nice place,” she says, inanely. “Got an… interesting mixture of House’s soulless machismo and Wilson’s actual human qualities.”

“He’s littered the place with photos,” House complains. 

She steps further inside, and Wilson gives her a little tour. The baby grabs onto the loose curls of her hair as she walks, chubby hands and the wide, amazed eyes of a baby who’s discovering something new and weird with everything it touches. 

Eventually they eat and hold awkward conversation, but Cuddy is so eager to have some form of social interaction that her feelings seem to infect Wilson, and they both slip into something friendly and relaxed. It’s always been easier for Wilson to do that sort of thing. House, meanwhile, remains perched at the edge of it all, watching like a cat on top of a bookshelf and eating all the food whilst they’re wasting time talking. The baby lies in its carrier beside Cuddy playing with the mobile hanging from the handle. And then, being at that age where it is fascinated by everything it sees, it locks eyes with House and stares. 

House stares back, eyes narrowed. 

The baby watches. Mouth hanging open like an idiot. 

“House…?” Wilson asks, a little strained. “Are you… death staring Cuddy’s baby?”

Cuddy looks down at Joy and chuckles. “She’s completely blown away by everything and everyone right now. Her perception development is really fascinating to watch at the moment.”

The baby tries to sit and makes grabby hands towards House, kicking her legs like she wants to get up. 

Wilson and Cuddy look at House. 

“Your baby is demanding my attention,” he announces. 

“Would you… like to… hold her?” she asks. 

“Not especially,” he replies truthfully.

He extends his arms to take her, anyway, since the kid’s being so needy about it. Cuddy takes Joy out of the carrier and House takes her, propping her on his knee. He bounces her up and down a little bit, which always seems to calm babies down when has to examine them. He’s never really had to _meet_ one before, though. All those present are quiet as they witness Joy grabbing onto the un-ironed cuff of House’s shirt, trying to eat the buttons. 

“Cute,” he remarks off-handedly. Then, leaning down a little and addressing the baby, “I’m cuter than you, though.”

Wilson leans his head against his hand, elbow on the edge of the sofa, and gives a long, weary sigh. “Why am I in a relationship with this man?”

Cuddy pats him affectionately on the cheek. “You’re doing us all a favour by taking him off our hands.”

***

The plane engine roars and Wilson reads his book. They land in about three hours, and he reckons he might be able to finish this book in that time if he manages not to get distracted by House. Currently, fortunately, House is asleep. The view out of the window is bright, almost neon blue. The clouds are far down below, a carpet of cotton wool. House’s fold-table has an empty cup on it, having stolen Wilson’s drink. Some things never change. 

Wilson puts down his book. He lays his head on House’s shoulder and closes his eyes. He feels House’s shoulders move with a deep breath, and then his head resting on top of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my therapist lmao  
> Also I have OCD myself- though I am NOTHING like House skjdlajfkdsa;jfs- so this was really cathartic to write!! It's one of my favourite headcanons that House has OCD, also I like to project lmao

**Author's Note:**

> yoooo come find me on tumblr at justkeeptreekin!


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